Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 19, 1924 — page 131: what you’re looking at

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

THE CONFIDENCE MAN. apparently transfixed by a witchcraft that held them wordless. There was struggle there, conflict; a desperate and deadly en- counter. But it was a fight without words or weap- ons. The spectator would only have been startled and shocked by what might have been discerned in the eyes of the men. But none saw them. It was the end of the auction, and a crowd of tired bargain seekers were intent upon the rich old bric- a-brac which was now under the hammer in a last hurried “ lot.”” They bid quickly, hurriedly, for it, and it was with the sound of the bidding in his ears that Corvan stood, feeling as isolated with the man be- fore him as though upon a desert island, and thought the flaming thoughts which seared his soul. “So this ”—a soundless voice was speak- ing to him from within that mass which pressed upon his forehead —“ this is your fate, Years back, you chose the pathway of your life, and it is written that you must walk that path forever, without stray- ing, without turning back. [f you linger to indulge in any ray of sunlight; if you turn from the way to seek any flower that is sweet or beautiful or scented with clean- liness, you will! be lost.” * Hello, Corvan!”’ Welsh’s voice seemed to have come after a century of suspended time. A hateful, unforgiving leer was in the gambler’s smile. He seemed to gloat. ‘“Sixty—sixty-seven dollars,” droned the voice of the auctioneer. ‘“ Do [ hear seventy ?”’ ‘“‘ Sixty-eight!” was bid. “ Seventy!” cried another. Corvan answered the gambler’s smile. So fate was to run him down in the person of Harmon Welsh, the gambler. “ Vou’ve come to get me?” thickly, in a deep, low voice. “No,” protested Welsh; “to remind you.” Corvan’s eyes narrowed as he saw the He spoke triumph gleam in the other’s eyes. Must he surrender to such scum as this? His soul revolted. “Going,” droned the auctioneer. ‘‘ Go- ing for seventy-five dollars!” 601 Corvan heard that droning voice, and his heart leaped up with a singular effect of gladness, The need of two poor sisters was as a weapon to his hand. With the simple ministrations that a girl had taught him, he could fight this leering fate. As though in answer to Welsh’s words he grinned broadly a defiance in the gam- bler’s face, and swung on his heel to face the dais. “ Eighty!” he cried. There was a disturbance in the tired crowd. A flutter of excitement and de- spair. ‘ Eighty-five!” cried a dealer frantically. ‘Eighty-six!’ roared Corvan; and he laughed. The eyes of the room turned upon him, and he saw them. ‘““Ninety!’? snapped the thin dealer in antiques. Corvan saw the many faces, and laughed. There was Maddox, on his feet at the wall. Skulking in a corner, Brower frowned upon him. Backed by a group of conspiring deal- ers, Jim Noylan stood like a block of wood gazing upon him with the solemn eyes of a hound. And Welsh leered up from his place beside the table with puzzlement in his eyes. Corvan saw them all, and a great spirit throbbed within him. He felt that in this contest of commerce he was fighting all the evil forces of the world. He was fighting fate and ruin. He was fighting for a place at the side of a decent, pure woman. He was struggling to maintain a place upon the heights. “One hundred dollars!” he cried, and there were no bids to meet him. ‘“‘ Going,” mourned the auctioneer. “ Go- ing.” Corvan’s eyes swept the room. He was alert for every sound and every movement. “Gone!” and the hammer fell. Corvan caught the eye of Welsh, and laughed. Then a movement in the door- way caught his eye, and the laugh faded upon his lips. For Margaret Fiske was en- tering at the door, and by her side was Grimshaw. With her entrance, Corvan felt that ten- sion of mind and nerve which must be the lot of a field marshal who sees the enemy oO Eomichooks (E(0) m + ae at — a a = Ss een eae