Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 40: what you’re looking at

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

674 ished in the wave of industry that engulfed them. If she had been troubled by the thought that the handsome Carl might be a victim of late hours and dark pastimes, his almost constant presence after office hours reassured her. If she had worried for fear the studious Philip might over- Strain his eyes at his evening studies, those fears were dissipated by his faithful loiter*~. ings in her vicinity. As for the wireman, his devotion was punctuated by the din of hammer and gimlet and the resounding ex- plosion of burnt fuses. Under his diligent craftsmanship, the walls of Amalie’s sitting room became a veritable honeycomb of push buttons, each endowed with its own miraculous mission of contributing to her comfort. Amalie’s appreciation of all this diligent industry was enthusiastic. True, it left but a small margin of her days free for any personal pursuits. The pleasant back sit- ting room became the rallying point of her three devotees. Wherever she went about the old house, the drone of Philip Swift’s voice, or the reverberation of Charlie Dew’s hammer, or the brisk persiflage of Carl Howe followed her. There were times when she found this wearing, and re- proached herself as a result. She had at- tained her end. The ‘“ home atmosphere ” of her advertisement had become a beauti- ful reality. IV. Cart Howe left the office of the oilcloth magnate one afternoon and took his blithe way toward the house on East Fifty-Third Street. Carl was wearing his navy serge double breasted suit. Blue, he had deter- mined, was Amalie Ladd’s preference in the matter of gentlemen’s clothes. The soft gray hat that set so jauntily on his handsome head was also a subtle homage to Amalie’s sartorial predilections. He took his way up the stairs to the tune of a whis- tled melody directed hopefully toward the door of the sitting room, and stopped short on the threshold of his own room. ‘Well! What are you doing here?” “ Hello!” greeted Charlie Dew cheerful- ly, and poked a ragged red head out of the door of the clothes closet. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Carl’s angry gaze took in the room: sinu- Ous serpents of wire lay coiled on the floor; the fusty leather bag was there—spread wide and with its plebeian contents spilling over the rug. Upon the couch lay heaped the contents of the closet—that meticulous- ly selected wardrobe which was the joy of Mr. Howe’s discriminating soul. “IT said what are you doing here?” he repeated furiously. ‘“‘ What are you doing in my room?” “ Digging clams,” said Charlie gravely. “ Can’t you see?” “What do you mean by coming in here when I’m out—dragging those things out of my closet?” ‘Not a thing,” Charlie confessed, and scratched his head with the hammer in-his hand. “I don’t mean a thing.” Carl advanced threateningly. “Answer me, you—you—”’ “Count ten before you say it,’ advised the wireman, and weighed the hammer sug- gestively. “If you got eyes, you can see what I’m doing.” Mr. Howe glanced redly from the spilled tools to the crumpled garments on the bed. ‘“Up to more of your darned officious tricks,” he sneered, “trying to show how smart you are! Well, that may make a hit with Mrs. Ladd, but J don’t want any of your push buttons. Get out!” “Watch me go,” advised Charlie. “ And it ain’t a push button. This is going to be a cute little light over your beddy so you won’t get a wrinkle between those lovely eyes of yours if you want to read in bed.” ** Well, you needn’t mind—”’ “T don’t specially,” Charlie broke in. “7 could put something between your eyes now that ’d—” “You'll get out of here—quick!”’ ‘““Who’s going to put me out?” “JT am, you young cub! Youw’re only here on probation, anyway.” ‘Who said so?” “T did! Now, get out!” “What on earth is all this noise?” It was Philip Swift speaking from the door- way, coatless, sleeves rolled up, the light of inspiration gleaming through the thick lenses of his alasces ble?” oO Eomichbooks “ What. is the trou- (S@)