Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 95: what you’re looking at

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

BLONDES AND BLEACHERS, ““ Sid,” I says on coming out of the show, “that picture points a wonderful truth, namely, that if a man takes less than ten minutes telling his wife good-by mornings, it shows he don’t love her no more. Re- member that.” But Sid, being a mere male, didn’t know what I was driving at. Later on that evening in the park, he slipped the tie that blinds—and it sure was some sparkler—on my left hand, and I let it stay there. I let it stay because, as I said, it was a good looking ring, and because { really was fond of the kid. But some- thing told me, ‘‘ Irene McMahon, go easy. Don’t burn all your Brooklyns behind you.” So when Sid asked me to name the merry day I coyly replied, “I’m yours, boy, I’m yours—when Spark Plug wins his race.” I didn’t hear exactly what he said, but it sounded something like ‘“‘ Darn Spark Plug,” putting it mild. Next morning I breezed into the office late, flashing my twinkler, and it sure caused some commotion. “Why, Irene!” hollered the girls. “Don’t tell us you gone and signed up for matrimony, a vamp like you. So you finally decided you’d be kind to some poor sap and wed him, huh? Oh, boy! Salome taking to light housekeeping! Cleo trun- dling kid coaches! Joy and oh joy! Are you kidding us, blondie?” Which goes to give you a little idea of the kind of a jane I am. But it wasn’t till four days after, when the excitement had commenced to tone down, that Wade Murphy, chief draftsman at our office, noticed my bit of glassware. ‘““What’s that, Irene?” he asked, his face slumping like the stock market in July. “ Is that an engagement ring?” ‘Say, kiddo,” I told him sarcastic, “ It’s about time you woke up. No, that ain’t no engagement ring, stupe. It’s a nice little piece of ice I’m toting around to keep me cool this hot weather.” He didn’t say nothing more, but slid onto his stool and hunched low over the board. Poor cheese! Ain’t it awful to be dippy Over a jane that ain’t dippy over you? Next Sunday Sid telephoned me to find out if I’d be home that evening. minded him, 725 ‘And say,” he asked me, “ why not trot along with me to the game this afternoon?” “What game?” I repeated, indifferent. “Yanks versus Athletics,” he enthused. ‘YT ain’t interested in baseball,” I told him. “Aw, come along, sweet,” he urged. “Even if you don’t like it, we can be together, and that’s something.” Well, I finally agreed I’d go, being cu- rious to see how Sid would make love to me at a baseball game. So far we’d tried the parlor, the park, the office, the movies and the subway. So I donned my new honeydew crépe and picture hat draped with pale blue chiffon and went downstairs to meet my fiancé. “Hmm, boy! Don’t you look good!” he raved. “Now, let’s trot along snappy. We don’t want to miss the first inning.” He grabbed me by the arm and we started down the street. “Here’s a ‘ vacant’ coming now, Sid,” I told him. “Who said we was going to take a taxi?” “We always took a taxi before.” I re- cold. ‘“Sure,” he said, pleasant, wasn’t engaged then, hon.” I didn’t say nothing, but I thought a lot “but we as Sid jammed me into a subway car packed with a gang of rough guys that was evident- ly heading for the same place we was. I hadn’t been in there two minutes before my beautiful new crépe was looking like some- thing the cat dragged in—and out again. My hat was cocked over on one ear with the chiffon tore in about twenty places. And hot! Say, after that ride I could of sat on the equator and thought it was a crack in the ice. We finally pulled into the stadium. Then bedlam began. One chivalrous Walter Raleigh behind me give me a nice little jab on the small of the back in a desperate effort to get out of the car four seconds before I did. Another noble Sir Lancelot shoved me against a cunning Lord Fauntleroy with a three days’ beard who instead of politely suggesting that I “just lean on him, grandmother,” shook me off like a wet terrier shakes off water, flinging me onto the lap of a hand- Eomichbooks (S@)