Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 171: what you’re looking at

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

THE ULTIMATE HUSBAND, him we would take it and he seemed much pleased. There is another thing: we can take it or leave it alone.” “* What’s that?”’ “The Ku Klux. Seems like everybody around here is in it, so I told him to put down our names in bold-faced type.” “ That’s right,” says I. ‘“ We want to be with the bunch—the minority is ones that always gets worked on.” “Another thing I gather from this guy,” says Joe. “In order to preserve one hun- dred per cent American decorum and tran- quillity we must be straight Democrats— not the soap tail kind,” says Joe, going through his hand baptism prior to wiping some of Rio’s soil on our roller towel. ‘““ Does he think we are going to start a Republican paper in Texas to make a living? Here in the Police Gazette I see that Vera Chapman, the movie art dodger, is going to take on her sixth matrimonial victim.” I spread out the omletted hen fruit and set the coffee urn on the linoleum table cover. It was about two months later that Joe started flying signals of distress. He had for some time been off his feed, nor did his snoring have its true ring at night. One day I lamped him dressed in his blue serges and patent leathers coming out of a picture show with the widow, Octatvia Brown— Octavia, age forty summers. Size on the butter bowl order. Fat! Looked as if she were trying to sit in her own lap. Face pleasant and big dimples and blue eyes. Late husband in the world’s war and early on the casualty list as dead. Insurance pending. Said late husband tried to dodge the draft behind her skirt, but it did not work. Several times Octavia had thrown her weather eye in my direction, giving me a ten-ton look, but I never had let it get in my system. I am just a plain quilted- necked hombre wtih no fancy embellish- ments, but when it comes down to women I am acquainted with the broad field of vision on their peculiar attainments. I know all about their lairs, feed, habits, little side steps and odds and ends. Octavia, noting that her tiny love darts had not penetrated my innards or gets me infected, works on Joe and has him feeding out of her hand. 797 “T don’t know how this thing come about,” says Joe to me that evening, pulling off his collar and sinking down on the soft side of a soap box. ‘“ Octavia says we are engaged and I’ll be durned if I ever asked her.” Joe looked worried. ‘“* Looks to me like you was about ready to do a turn in the psycho ward. The widow has evidently been apprized of the present worth of your bills of lading and has played the old, old gag on you,” says I. ‘‘ When are your nuptials to be celebrated and are you going to call a preacher or an under- taker?” I was glad to think we had our “ deposits guaranteed ”’ in separate accounts. If there is anything that can play hell with a young and tender bank balance it is to get in close proximity with a seasoned widow looking for new worlds to conquer. “Help me out of this thing, Silas, old top,” says Joe. “I don’t need this woman any more than a frog needs two tails. Two days engaged and she is hanging heavy on my hands. What will you give me for her, Silas? Give me that can of tobacco and she is yours.” Joe swung his arm with a sweeping gesture. “If I may speak my mind,” says I, “ the trouble with you is that you are not only unsophisticated, but you are uncouth. You Should have taken a few lessons on female inspiration before you were taken with this jane infirmity—at your age it is generally fatal.” ‘“‘ Was Adam sophisticated?” “No,” says I. “ That was where Eve had it all over him.” I could not help but feel sorry for this poor creature of circumstances. Joe was a good fellow and I had known him for years. It was plain that it was my duty to save him. “* Joe,” says I, “ this is a case of where it not only takes a firm hand, but a delicate one. Now, when it comes to legal advice, I am the flea-bitten gazaboo that can hand you out the right dope.” “Yep, I can see that you don’t hate yourself. What’s the matter of you taking the widow over?” says Joe. “TI am forty-eight years and still running in the pastures, and still a buckin’, and I COMICLMOOOkKs (C@