Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 43: what you’re looking at

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

GENTLEMEN ONLY, “ Faint—very faint.” “Tt’s still bleeding,” announced Charlie Dew’s voice from the doorway. Her voice was frantic, her eyes harassed. “You must go and lie down, too. Per- haps I had better dress it again—I’ll come in to you presently.” She did. The injured hand was reban- daged—with a second handkerchief from Philip Swift’s supply. Eleven o’clock found her still tacking a solicitous course between the two rooms. The courageous assurances on the part of the two invalids to the effect that they were quite all right, failed to im- press her, since her presence in one room gave rise to a summons from the other. And at midnight the aggrieved Carl re- turned. Amalie heard his step, and had a fleeting pang of conscience when she real- ized that never before had he been out so late. It was when she heard him fumbling for the key to his room that she hurried out into the hall. He stood swaying before his door. The smart gray felt hat was cling- ing precariously to the back of his head. One end of his cravat dangled outside his vest. He regarded her sadly through hali- shut eyes. “T had to come back,” he told her. “1 knew you didn’t — hic— want me! No- body ”’—he was fumbling uncertainly for his handkerchief — “ nobody wantsh me! All you care about’sh them! That f- freckle fashed p-pole climber an’ that sh- shrimp.” He began to weep» dismally. Amalie’s gaze was wide with horror and remorse. She took the key from him, opened the door and led him gently inside. “Qh, Mr. Howe, this is terrible, terrible. How could you do it!” “TI drowned my shorrows,” he told her, “in gin—it washn’t good gin. It was shin —shin—thet—it washn’t good gin. I met a chap. Nice chap. I shaid, ‘ what ’d you do if nobody loved you?’ He said, ‘ Vd get drunk.’ So I did. Clever chap. f never would have thought of it.” She had guided him safely to the couch and turned on the light. Now. she took his hat, although he protested indignantly at her waiting on him, and when she insist- ed, began to weep bitterly. 677 ‘“ Nobody loves me—” “Hush, you don’t know what you’re saying, Mr. Howe.” -—“ Call me Carl,” he pleaded. “ Please, Mr. Howe—” “Call me Carl,” he persisted tearfully. “Then I’ll know you’re not mad be-because I’m drunk.” “Tm not mad, I’m disappointed,” she amended. “Tt ishn’t my fault. Itsh that rotten lil pole climber—he came snooping around. You let him—I don’t want to lie down.” “But you must. I’m going down to make you some coffee.” “Don’t need coffee,” he protested. need you. You don’t like me.” ‘““ But of course I do.” “ Better’n them?” he persisted. She left him, weeping dismally into a dirty handkerchief, and went down to the kitchen. When she returned with a steam- ing pot of coffee, he was asleep with the pil- low over his head. She took off his shoes and covered him, then she went wearily down to the little back sitting room and locked the door behind her. 2a V. Durinc the following weeks Amalie Ladd’s bright optimism suffered a partial eclipse. Those weeks had imbued her with a faint glow of sympathy for the de- parted Mrs. Proctor; a faint suspicion that perhaps that determined woman’s methods had not been groundlessly heartless. Then, too, the neat little budget book showed a weekly deficit that was appalling. The meager residue of the late Mr. Ladd’s be- quest was dwindling with horrid rapidity. True, her best room—the parlor floor front with bath—was still vacant. But the ne- cessity for tenanting the vacancy seemed to her so much less hazardous than the task of locating the triply endowed being which her fourth lodger must be that she shrank guiltily from making the effort, and put the thought of the budget beok sturdily away from her. Consequently it was with mineled alarm and amazement that she heard Victoria an- neunce on a crisp winter day: oO GOMmiIichboo <S (C@)