Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 20: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

at it was all over. But there mistake. The clergyman had own from the platform for the e of shaking hands with his audience. e more Connors scrutinized the man’s face carefully. Where had he nm him before? One thing was certain— was during the pre-Bowery days. “Mr. Connors, we want to thank vou for ase of your hall and hope that you will allow us to come again. I feel assured that some of these people would favor me with their friendship,” said the clergyman, ap- proaching Connors. Sure, they will,” responded the proprie- tor. “Cer’nly, they'll be frien’s wit? you. _ Say—if they likes you down here theyll _ shoot th’ whiskers offen anybody that’s sore on you. All you got to do is tell ’em—see? Just point ’em out and say: * There’s a gent whose face I don’t like.’ Bing—off goes his spinich.” Whereupon the young clergyman gave evidence of possessing the saving grace of humor, for he laughed—long and heartily. “ That’s fine,” he said. ‘“ And now, Mr. Connors, I will bid you good night—come and see me some time.”’ As the street door closed behind the mis- sion party, Connors saw the folly of trying to mix religion and pleasure in the Cracker Pot punch bowl—at least, from the stand- point of profit. Within ten minutes the place was empty. Eddie had made for the trapdoor at the moment of the mission workers’ departure. Emile was talking to Joie the Jug—the only person in the bar- room. Therefore Connors seated himself at one of the tables to think. «Well, he’s scrapped the night’s re- ceints!”” was the burden of his intellectual sor, “ But Tlike him. Who'd ’a’ thought -He’s human.” - then one of the mission patty re- for some music, which had been for- e me,” said Connors. “but what es this preaching gent of yours Lis - ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. me on a companions, as if to assure ~ Glad to do it.” Without thanking him, Connors leaned forward on the table and studied the bit of paper. Occasionally he would lean back and gaze at the ceiling, then renew his fixed attention to the name on the slip before him. At last a smile came over his face. “It's him! Who’d ’a’ thought it? The smart little divil.” The words were scarcely uttered when a burly figure dropped into a chair on the opposite side of the table. Then a second stalwart chap appropriated the one next to him. Following them came a third, and finally a fourth man. They were the sailors who were so anx- ious to meet Captain Jake. CHAPTER Hil. ‘¢ THE JUGGLING SAILOR.” HEY were as merciless a looking quar- tet as ever trod the deck of a ship; grizzled dogs of the sea of an age now long since passed. “ Hot rum is what we drinks, and it’s go- ing to be qn the house,” announced the lead- er, striking the table with his fists so hard that even the matches seemed frightened and jumped out of the conical little recep- tacle which held them. The other three nodded in approval. Then all four glared at Connors. “ Of course,” he replied. ‘“ Emile, bring four brimstones for th’ rummies.” “ And after that—four more,” shouted the leader to Emile. Connors had become hard as_naile. Selfishness might prompt him to whine a bit when his personal interests were touched, but he was no coward. Far from it. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, threw them on the table and with freezing sar- casm remarked: “ This one opens the front door, that one the safe, and if you'll run in to-morrow I'll introduce you at the bank.” “ Cut th’ funny stuff,” warned the gruff leader with a slicing thrust of his hand across the board. Then he frowned at his them of his comicbooks.com