Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 123: what you’re looking at

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

THE- SELF-ASSASSINATION OF ANGEL. 758 the wide, bustling street of Red Bluff, “I don’t think I ever knowed of a metropolis being born quicker before!” “Well,” Solemn grunted, “It’s time something was being born ‘ quick’ out on this danged old desert! She’s been empty heretofore long enough, I figure!” Until the two ancient prospectors got the lay of the land, they decided to be a bit careful about investigating the interiors of the various places of iniquity. “We'll go down to the end of the main artery of commerce and camp,” Solemn suggested, ‘“‘after which we'll just re- connoiter awhile!” It was a difficult task to get Versus past Saloons Numbers One, Two, Three and Four, from which the pungent odor of fresh beer greeted her nostrils. Evidently it was accomplished, however, and Solemn and Dirty Shirt were successful also in tempor- arily passing Saloons Numbers Five, Six and Seven, but with an effort. Midway between the Chinese laundry, Hop Sing, and Saloon Number Four, Dirty Shirt noticed a sign over a slender one- story building closely abutting the edge of the street; the wording was as follows: Wong Gee's Café — No Checke Cashed “That looks like it might be a restau- rant!” Dirty Shirt exclaimed. “ Darned if it don’t!” Solemn ejaculated in reply, ‘“ what do you say we find a good place to camp and then come back up here and buy our suppers from the Chink in- stead of cooking them to-night?” “Tt’s a blamed good idea!” Dirty Shirt agreed, heartily. Wong Gee bustled about the interior of the café as the two aged prospectors, having piled their stuff in the vacant space between Saloon Number Seven and the warehouse, returned and stepped into the restaurant. The place was immaculately neat and clean and filled with the inviting atmosphere so welcome and so wholesome to those who have traveled all day without stopping for food or the opportunity to drink. Scarcely were Solemn and Dirty Shirt seated when Wong Gee glided forward to attend their desires. 8 A ‘Gimme some ham an’ eggs an’ fried potatoes!” Solemn commanded; “ an’ turn the eggs over. Got any eggs?” “ Plenty good eggs, velly flesh!” “Make mine th’ same and—” Dirty Shirt was interrupted by a shrill, trembling crow which echoed through the restaurant. *“ What’n hell was that?” he exclaimed. ““ Angel,” Wong Gee answered, gently; “ Him ‘ Angel.’ ” ““* Angel,’ ”” Wong Gee repeated tenderly, “ Him velly fine, heap champlion fightin’ looster! Lickee hell out all loosters in Bla’stow—” As if to verify the Oriental’s words, a slim-built, long legged, extensive necked, black and red, probably half-breed Indian game rooster stalked through the kitchen entrance into the dining room. In the fowl’s eye was a pensive melancholia which immediately appealed to the humane im- pulses of the two simple-souled, tender- hearted old prospectors. “ What’s the matter with him?” Dirty Shirt asked. “‘ He looks discouraged or something!” Angel walked listlessly about among the tables, indifferently pecking at a fly here, carelessly absorbing a cock-roach or a bread crumb there; his straggly two-feathered tail drooped and the almost reptilian head, with the long dagger-like bill, occasionally turned wistfully to one side while a distant, ‘‘ what- th’-devil’s-th’ use ” expression came into the large jet black eyes with their yellow rims. “He does act sort of dejected!” Solemn observed. “ Angel, him lonesome.’”” Wong Gee siched. ‘‘ Him velly damn lonesome! No chlickens, no fightin’ loosters in Led Bluff —Angel, him only sclappin’ looster in Led Bluff! Make him too much sickee because no have sclap enough!” “ That’s bad,’”’ Solemn sympathized, “‘ it’s hell for anything to be lonesome hike that.” “You ought to get him a wife,” Dirty Shirt advised; ‘‘ maybe if you’d get him a nice good-natured wife or two—” “No, no!” Wong Gee interrupted quick- ly and sadly, ‘‘ Angel no good fo’ wife; him old bachelo’ looster! Gottee him one— two—wife in Bla’stow, one timee! Eomichbooks:co