Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 42: what you’re looking at

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

676 gently. ‘I’m not sure there isn’t a piece of glass in it.” ‘* Qh, no—I’m sure it’s clean. Now, Mr. Swift—your handkerchief. Are you sure it’s linen?” * T never use anything Sut linen.” He was indignant. He had taken the hand- kerchief nearest at hand, and it had been one of his treasured best. ‘There, now,” Amalie observed with a sigh, “it’s safe from germs anyway.” ‘“ But it’s still bleeding,’ Charlie remind- ed her happily. : Philip Swift was leaning against the door jamb. He was very pale. “I think if that’s all I can do, I’d better go and lie down.” Amalie whirled on him anxiously. “ You’re not ill?” “It’s the.blood. I always feel like this —always have ever since I was a child— the sight of blood—the very word—” He swayed slightly and Amalie dropped the wireman’s injured hand and hurried to the door. “Why, my dear boy!” “ It’s nothing—a faintness.” “Then you must get to your room. Here —lean on me. You must lie down!” _ He rested heavily on her slight shoulders as she led him away. Carl Howe, whose. mouth had been working uselessly, strode into his rogm, slammed the door behind him. ‘The deserted wireman gazed resent- fully at Philip Swift’s drooping figure. “Oh, this is dreadful,” groaned Amalie; ‘all this dissension!” ‘“ Brutal,” murmured Philip. “Now you stay here’’—she eased him onto his couch—‘“ until I go and get some aromatic spirits of ammonia.” She hurried out, collided with Charlie Dew’s hovering bulk. ‘It’s still bleeding,” he announced hope- fully. ~ “You must hold it up,” she advised, and hurried down the stairs. The wireman watched her go and then stepped swiftly to Philip Swift’s door. “Is there anything [ can do for you, girly?” he asked solicitously. The man on the couch opened his eyes, shot a beam of triumph across the room. \ ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “No, thank you,” he said. But Charlie moved closer, extended the bandaged hand stained with a great splash of bright crimson. “Tt’s still bleeding,” he announced casu- ally. ‘I’m afraid your pretty hankie is all spoiled. It’s awful—you can see for yourself.” He waved the hand before the horrified Philip, who turned and buried his face in: the pillow. “Get out of here—you brute!” The wireman grinned, but the sound of light footsteps on the stairs sent him hurry- ing to the door. Once there, he turned back to the figure on the bed. ‘“‘ Blood!” he whispered huskily. “It’s bloody, sister!”” And to Amalie as she hur- ried past him he announced in a voice pitched clearly enough to penetrate even the thick down of a pillow: “ It’s still bleed- ing—my hand is!” Then he went blithely into his own room and lit a cigarette. The languishing Philip was drinking the revivifying liquid that Amalie had mixed for him, when Carl Howe thrust his head into the room. ““T—TI cleaned up the mess,” he an- nounced. ‘‘ One of my suits is ruined— the broken glass—a big tear in the trou- sers!”’ Amalie lifted her eyes reproachfully. “Oh, Mr. Howe! You see what a bad temper will do.” “If he’d told me the light was your idea.” “T’m sure he would have if you had given him time. But now—you see what has happened—poor Charlie, poor Mr. Swift!” ‘Poor nothing! blurted furiously. suit—” “ How can you think of clothes at a time like this?” “ How can I think of—of—” For a mo- ment he glared apoplectically about him, then he turned and hurried down the stairs, muttering venomous imprecations against his fellow lodgers. Amalie half rose to follow him, but a gentle groan from the bed stopped her. “How are you feeling now?” What about me!” he “What about my oO CoOmMiclooolKks (S@