Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

6 ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. few. He did not even mourn the loss of his money, because he knew, as so many do not, that he couldn’t take it with him where he was going. Rollin drove his fine sport car up the avenue to his apartment. But he did not enter. The key did not fit. He was forced to ring the bell. Even this did not bring the familiar old house- keeper to the door. A strange maid an- swered the bell, and gruffly asked him what he wanted. ‘“ [—er—that is—I want to get in, don’t you know.” She would have shut the door in his face, but an immaculately booted foot shot into the crevice. “Go away!”’ “ But I live here.” ‘“* Did,” answered the sour face. ‘“ Do,” corrected he. ‘‘ Not,” she shook her head. ‘ We don’t know you.” “You will!” promised he. It was destined to be a long time before he could make good on this promise! There was no doubt that Mac had done a good job of it! Anyway, Rollin determined not to bother the police about it. He had only a few more days to live. Mac was welcome to what was left. Why indulge in a public scandal about money he could not possibly use in the four brief weeks of life remain- ing? CHAPTER IIf. MORE TROUBLE. LMOST any other man, in the same extenuating circumstances, would have thrown himself on the mercy of friends. and quietly ended his few re- maining days on borrowed money in a good hospital. Rollin had plenty of such friends, from whom he could have borrowed any reasonable amount, even if they knew he never could pay it back. But there still lingered, deep within, a bit of the old Liv- ingston pride which would not permit this. And perhaps there was also an atom of an older and more primitive instinct, awakened into life by the recent crisis, which bade him seek some remote, secret place for death. He had an unexplainable horror of dying in a hospital. The ranch certainly was a fine place to hide—and die. Anyway, in half a minute he had fully determined not to borrow a cent from his friends, not to impose upon them in any way. He would die, if die he must, in the house where he was born, or in the com- fortable embrace of his favorite car while getting there, and not in a hard hospital bed with a hard hearted nurse nodding at the footboard and coolly awaiting either the end of her night trick or another victim. There still remained of worldly goods the car, a well filled traveling bag, a few per- sonal trifles such as a gold cigarette case, a ring or two—sufficient, if sold, to keep him the remainder of his allotted days. He would go back to the old and all but for- gotten Livingston homestead ranch, from whence his grandfather had come to the great city when the city was not. There he would die as befitting one of the family. Rollin Ross Foster Livingston had never had a single worth-while adventure in his life. Absolutely nothing but the dullest commonplaces had ever happened his way. Carefully guarded all his youth, with a reti- nue of servants always and ever about to look after every imaginable want, he had never had the opportunity for adventure. He had traveled safely and comfortably; he had watched races, the popular college games, driven a perfectly safe car on per- fectly safe roads, and done the safely usual days without end. Once or twice he had drunk too much, but not much too much. Once or twice he had been out with sporty parties, but no harm done, and after all, very commonplace and unexciting. But now the Great Adventure lay but a few weeks ahead, and much was destined to happen in the days between. The wheel of Fortune had begun to turn, and every- thing was changing. To-morrow morning there would be no one to lay out his clothes for him, to se- lect his tie and socks. His prescribed breakfast, if any breakfast at all, with oO Gomicsoo S (S@