Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 56: what you’re looking at

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

682 bony frame surmounted by a turniplike head with steady eyes the color of dirty dishwater. “ And monsieur?” he asked silkily. “ To what do we owe the honor of his pres- ence?” “Who? Géorges?” laughed cheerily. artist student who will help me carry my heavy bundles. You see, I have no money for a fiacre, mon frére!”’ “You have then seen fit to bring a strange man—a mouche, for all I know, a spy—to where your poor brother hides from the injustice of the world for a few days? You have done this to me?” “ Fichtre!’ mocked the girl. ‘“ Don’t be a big cabbage! I have told you the truth. He is a stranger—an American student. He has never heard of you.” “Then,” said Langouste ironically, “ he has much to learn.” : He motioned—with an eyebrow, it seemed to George—to one of his two com- panions, who instantly glided from his seat and crossed the room to take his place before the door, one hand thrust into the sash he wore, where doubtless a knife was hidden. It was evident that little Mme. Volon- tiers was not going to be able to carry it off so nonchalantly as she had forlornly hoped. George smelled battle in the air. He kept his eyes upon the big man, his arms hanging loose at his sides, waiting for the first hostile move. Without shifting his gaze, he took in the salient features of the big room; noted here a rug that one might slip up on, there a heavy candlestick that might come in handy, how the light struck in from the grimy windows. He hadn’t expected the climax to come so suddenly. Langouste was a good general, in his way. He didn’t believe in wasting time in parleys. He had a definite purpose in mak- ing his sister’s apartment his home for a few days, and that purpose had not been accomplished. The arrival of the girl was inconvenient; but her he could have kicked downstairs. The bringing in of a stranger angered and alarmed him. He signaled to the other man. and something happened. Mme. Volontiers “Oh, he is only a nice ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, George could not have said that he saw the cast whereby the little man, without rising from the table, drew and hurled a thick, broad bladed knife at him. He never could recall seeing the knife itself as it flickered, a sinister gray thing, straight for his throat. But the actions of a trained athlete are motivated, not by observation and reflection, culminating in decision, but are performed instinctively, and founded upon thousands of reiterated gestures stored up in the subconsciousness. The man who thinks first and hits afterward, will seldom hit more than air, or a blank wall. The trained fighter moves first, and later on may ponder on his reasons. So, George turned his head just enough to the right so that the knife nicked his ear, causing it to bleed, but not injuring him in the least. Then, in two leaps, he was on top of Langouste. He always felt aggrieved that he could remember so little of what followed. He knew that it was grand, while it lasted,’ but somehow details were blurred. There was a soul-satisfying crunch when his flail- ing right caught Langouste just at the angle of the jaw, and he went smashing over the table, bringing it in ruin to the floor. There was a brisk bit of sparring with the little chap who had thrown the knife at him, cul- minating in a pretty uppercut which lifted him a foot in the air, and dropped him like a sack. There was a joyous smashing of wood, and glass, and china, and a banging of copper as a Turkish coffee set was raked from a mantel. And all the time Mme. Volontiers’s thin, high screams formed an obligato that stimulated George as the bag- pipes stimulate a regiment of Highlanders. No pistols were used; noise was the last thing Langouste and his ilk wanted, noise of the sort that would bring in the police. The little chap on guard at the door now felt obliged to desert his post. Just as George straightened up after uppercutting his pal, the little one paused some six feet behind him, leaned back, threw wide his arms, and kicked upward in a vicious half circle well above his own head. The world came to an end. From nadir to zenith the universe flamed’crimson. The last trump split the monoliths of kings, and comicbooks-com-