Argosy and Railroad Man's Magazine — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

“ JEHANNUM’” SMITH. The priests were so occupied with their ferocious god that the few who noted Smith’s flight had no stomach for following that crazy Hercules into the darkness under the trees. Many minutes would have to elapse before an armed pursuit with lanterns could be organized. But of minutes Smith needed only a few for the work he had in hand. Having acquired the pole, the lever which he had set out to get, his-mind reverted inflexibly to the job he had come to accomplish. It was hardly an effort for him to insert the heavy bamboo under the grating of the fair dancer’s prison and to apply one of his massive shoulders to the other end. The whole grating tore its way out of the wall, bringing with it an avalanche of soft bricks and cement. In a few seconds the girl was dragged through the jagged opening, squeaking with terror and pain. Smith bundled her in her voluminous garments, tucked her under one arm, and raced for the wall. The faithful Poonoosawmi sat where he had been stationed, counting off urgent prayers to a long list of queer gods on his rosary beads and quaking at the sounds of strife which came from the direction of the light glow. He squealed joyously as the crunch of running feet came over the leaves and his master’s form loomed in the shadow beneath him. “Fre, ketch ’old an’ ’ang on!” panted Smith. He spread his feet wide to get a good purchase, swung his bundle of cloth gently once or twice to get the heft of it, and then heaved it upward with all the strength of his great shoulders and loins. : Poonoosawmi on the coping grabbed and clutched at the billows of cloth and hung on desperately as he was bid; and in an- other second Smith himself sat astride the wall and lifted the bundle easily to his lap. In a few more moments their footsteps died away in the blessed sheltering darkness of the jungle. Ii. Ir was morning, seven o’clock, and the Hotel Oriental was thinking of getting up 415 for breakfast. A closed match-box sort of native carriage rattled up to the door. A white man and a brown man and a heavily wrapped figure slipped out and hurried into the hotel. The vaudeville man was, as usual, quite “unmoved by the hurried entry of the three. Smith stood with feet apart like a colossus, and pointed with a magnificent gesture to the veiled loveliness. ‘“‘ There’s your Malka Devi. An’ my tip to you is to grab ’er an’ then take a train as fast as you knows ’ow—after ’andin’ over five ’undred rupees.” The agent sprang up with an exclamation. “ By golly, you got-her! Man, you’re. a genius! But say, hold on! I got to see her first, ain’t I?” The girl needed no persuading to show her beauty which had allured so many to this man who was going to take her to a land of affluence and freedom. Veils slipped from her like the famous dance of the seven; and presently she stood forth in all her glory—a middle-aged, rather stout, and dusky lady, of form and features which, while they suited the Oriental conception perfectly, could never have measured up to the standard of a Ziegfeld chorus. The manager’s face turned grayish, and he gasped. “Gosh! Say, mister, did—are you sure you got the right one?” “Sure? Suttinly! Arsk ’er yourself.” “Holy gee! Say, I’d—I’d expected a sort of a show-baby—broonette, of course; but with a good make-up I figured she’d— gee whillikens! But maybe she’s got the fancy steps. Tell her to do a turn.” Smith translated. Nothing loath, she began to weave her arms in and out, and shuffled her feet and beat time with her anklets. The manager sat down heavily. “ Holy Mike! It’s the hootch! A coupla new shakes maybe; but it’s the good old Coney Island cootchie dance. Gosh-a- mighty! -Say, is that all there is to a temple dance?” “No, sir,”’ said Smith. ‘‘ There’s more to it—heaps more—if you ain’t modest.” “Oh, golly no!” yapped the manager. “Say, mister, I can’t handle this for a comicbooks-com