Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

860 “IT don’t know’s I would! I’m not so sure you'll need me. Ed’s mother told me yesterday forenoon that Ed’s been writing about his wife’s younger sister—she’s visit- in’ them now. I set out to tell her there’s girls right here in Maine plenty good enough for any man!” “Don’t worry about me and girls. They don’t like old farmers.” “‘ Stuff and nonsense! Trouble with you is, youre too slow. By the time you’ve made up your mind you’re good enough for a girl, she’s up and married some one else! Some day you'll do it so quick you won’t have time to think. Well, you'll find your clean union suits in your grip. Mind, you, don’t lose my alligator satchel!” Til. Orr for the West! The Land of Prom- ise—the Golden Gate—the White Spot of the earth! He was going to follow the old Apache Trail; see the country of the cow- boy, the great open spaces, the land where men are men—and two-fisted at that! Well—here he was, halfway between San Bernardino and Los Angeles. The only open spaces he had seen so far were the hot Kansas cornfields and the Arizona desert, palely obscured by alkali dust. And the nearest approach to an Apache had been a fat, dirty squaw sitting on the station plat- form at Albuquerque, too lazy to brush the flies off her baby’s greasy little face. Out West! “ | know why they call it ‘ out,’ ” he re- flected bitterly. ‘“ One thousand—two thousand — three thousand — you're out! And the only reason they stay here is be- cause no man could live through Needles twice!” Three thousand miles to fish for yellow tail! “Los Angeles! “‘ There he is—here he is! old son-of-a-gun—Sewall Wright! Wright!” ‘“ Why, Ed—well, well—Ed!” They were shaking each other’s shoul- ders now, and each, looking through the mists of twenty years, saw something of the chum of his boyhood—something which laid Los Angeles!” Sewall—you Sewall ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. a constraining hand on them and left them for a moment in awkward and wistful silence, Ed was the first to recover. “T’ve got a room for you at the Pacific Hotel, old man. Awful sorry we can’t take you in just now, but our house at the beach is small and all my wife’s relatives are camping there this week. Next week—” The rest was lost in the crowd as he hustled Sewall through and deposited him and his bags in the waiting car. “Sorry I can’t go with you.” Ed was shutting the heavy door. ‘ Have to rush back to the office. Burt will look after you. Call you in the morning.” Then, as the car was moving off: ‘‘ Oh, by the way, the yellow tail ’ll be running soon—any time now—something to do with the full of the moon—let you know—time of your life—-” “ T’ve got my tackle in my trunk,” shout- ed Sewall, but he felt sure his voice was lost in the growing roar of traffic. What difference did it make anyway? He was tired and dizzy. His head ached and he was oppressed by that sense of un- reality—a sort of sleep walking daze—that is so likely to chain the country bred when they are hustled into the bedlam of a city’s noise. “ Room 638, Mr. Wright.” Up he shot. That quiet room—shaded, cool! Through an open door, the smooth side of a porcelain tub resting on green tiles. A bath—the coldest bath in the world— and then sleep. As deep as quiet thought his sleep was; and through it he moved to a land where he could fish forever on the banks of a glorified Penobscot for yellow tail. He had to throw them all back, however, for they glared at him reproachfully through eyes that looked as Ed’s had when he was fifteen. IV. It was nearly noon when Sewall awoke— awoke to the clang of street cars, the roar of the Pacific electric, the smell of the city ~ rising from its hot pavements. “On the head! He hit her with an ax because he loved her! Read all about it!” ‘Bull Montana wins bee-ooty contest! Oh, it’s ter-r-r-rible! Read all about it!” COMiICcloo SnCO) i