Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

THE INCOMPLETE It was too much for her. She threw an appealing look at Sewall and was answered by a smile of such complete understanding and sympathy that they were both plunged into an awkward silence. Sewall felt nervously for his handker- chief, and pulled out with it the forgotten pamphlet. The cowboy’s mustang was still pawing the air well above the oil derrick. ‘“Look here,” he said eagerly, ‘“ how would you like to see some bronco busting and a real Western barbecue?” “Why, I—Id love it! It would be all right, I guess. We’re really sort of neigh- bors. My name is Ellen—Ellen Barrett. Father owns the Barrett Dry Goods Store on the corner of Main Street and Maple.” “Of course! And I’m Sewall Wright. My great-grandfather laid out the first road in Penobscot County.” “ Too bad he didn’t live to finish it! The last time I drove over that road, on my way to the station, our Ford rattled like a sepa- rator!” ‘“T don’t doubt it. A man couldn’t walk over that road afoot without rattling!” They laughed merrily. Comparatively few people have found the Maine roads so mirth provoking. “ Well, shall we go?” asked Sewall. “ It’s about time for the two o’clock trip.” V. TuHeEy found their conveyance just off Pershing Square—a bulging orange-colored bus of the type popularly known as “ rub- berneck wagor.” They took little notice of their traveling companions, a_ dispirited looking crowd on the whole, but scrambled into the very back seat. Their immediate object was to get as far as possible from the aggressive youth perched beside the windshield, with an official cap and a red megaphone. The drive from Los Angeles to their des- tination—a little real estate center and one wildcat oil derrick in the middle of a lonely brown field—was not inspiring. It is doubt- ful, however, if Ellen and Sewall ever will know the places they passed that afternoon. They were, in reality, about three thousand miles away—walking up Bangor’s main ANGLER. 865 street, along the old tote roads through Sewall’s wood lots, down by the banks of the Penobscot. “ By the way,” Sewall demanded sudden- ly, “ ever hear of yellow tail?” “Ts it a riddle?” she asked. ““ No—fish. That’s what I came out here for—to fish for yellow tail.” “Well,” she laughed, “ when do you be- gin?” “ That’s just it; I don’t know,” he an- swered. “ You see, you have to wait until they run.” “Of -coursel®’ again, them.” And they both laughed; which shows you how silly they were getting. ** Now, then, folks,” broke in the raucous youth of the megaphone, “ all out! Make yourselves at home; look the proposition over. I’ve told you all you need to know about it. It’s a sure thing—a real money- maker. Stroll around. Ask your questions. Then come back to me and buy your units!” “Buy your units?” Ellen whispered anx- iously. ‘‘ Do we have to buy something?” ** Of course not!”’ Sewall reassured her as he lifted her down from the high seat. The pressure of her hand on his shoulder made him feel quite competent to handle this situ- ation, though he was beginning to realize it was not exactly what he had anticipated. “You stay right here a minute,” he told her; and went to accost the young man in charge. ‘“ See here,” he demanded, “‘ where is this barbecue and round-up?” The youth turned and, with a world weary eye, looked Sewall over from head to foot. If he had centemplated an inso- lent retort, however, he changed his mind. “The—er—barbecue is in the tent to your right, sir. The bronco is in the corral beyond.” A barbecue—in a tent! Sewall’s visions of a trench dug under the open sky and a bullock roasting over glowing coals died hard. But there was no point in lurking in the shadow of the bus. The other She was smiling at him “They run and you try to catch passengers had scattered in aimless groups about the fields; so Sewall took Ellen’s arm and led her, very apologetically, to the tent. comicbooks CO