Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 7, 1925 — page 44: what you’re looking at

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

RS * - ae Sa tain Pia. - s . - . 1 5 6 De eee PE a A ae BMP ae MA PUN CPR, at Pr aer yy « v, ee FS = ' A I a) A" ~ “They were,” he announced, portentous, rolling his notes like thunder, ‘‘ Miss Mary Van Adrian Schuyler and Sir Edward Tris- tram Hydewater.” “Well,” put in Andy, hot, ‘“ they ain’t got nothing on us. Were Mr. Andrew Riggs Gibbons and Miss Elsie Marie Cor- bett, and I’d like to know why in—” “Andy,” I interrupted, gentle, under- standing what he couldn’t, ““I’m sure the Reverent has did enough for one day. He ~must be all tired out. No, Andy, don’t. We can go somewheres else.” I took his arm and enforced an exit. “ Say, Ud like to know why the dickens that guy couldn’t tote out his prayer book and spill a few words on top of us,” he com- plained. “He just couldn’t, Andy,” I soothed. ** You see—he’s society.” “Well, we'll get somebody else then,” declared my embittered half. But we couldn’t. © Eight nickels later Andy was willing to admit that the clergy simply wasn’t to home that evening. “They must be all away on a conyen- tion or something,’ I surmised. ‘“‘ Maybe at—at the D-Delaware Water G-Gap.” Of a sudden the dam bust and the flood flowed. ‘“Aw, shucks, honey,” babied Andy. ** Listen, don’t do that, dear, right out here on the street. Dry up, Elsie, or byerynedy will be wondering who you are.’ I turned on him savage, Sanne through a mist of tears. “Well, I’m wondering it myself,” I snapped. ‘“ Yes, that’s just what Pd like to know. Who am I? I ain’t Mrs. Gibbons. T ain’t Elsie Corbett. I ain’t nobody. No, don’t touch me! You can’t touch a ghost, can your” I laughed, hysterical. “Now, listen, honey,” begged Andy scared. “ f isten: dear, turn off the tear taps. I'll tell you what,” he added, bright, “we'll hike ever to Broadway and take in one of those greatest love stories ever filmed.” “Greatest love stories ever — flim- flammed,” I snarled, vicious, allowing the tears free rain. “ Huh, it’s gonna be great “to set and watch the handsome hero hew ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. + through fire, flood and fighting to win his woman in the face of fickle fate, her furious father and a rip-roaring rival, while beside me snores the poor sap that ain’t got enough gumption to be my husband when I’m hand- ing him myself free, postpaid and delivered right to the door. Yah!” ‘““Go on,” said Andy, humble. serve it.” I choked back a fresh string of warming “T de- -adjectives. “Continue,” he encouraged. “I. want you to help me call myself names.” ‘Well, I don’t do it,” I gulped, sopping up the sobs. ‘“‘ Oh, my dear, good Andy!” He pulled me into the deep door of one of them swell shops—dark it was, and de- serted—and let me water the gardenia on his lapel. “Oh, Elsie,” he whispered, husky, ‘“ do = think Tm nouns it any better than I ‘dune close, trembling, then I lifted my head and smiled. “Andy,” I said, giggling through the hic- cups, “ we’re a couple of nuts. Why, we -—we’re having a wonderful time, ain’t we, Andy? What’s the matter with us anyhow, acting up like kids that has to stay home from the circus?” He laughed, too, and kissed me cute on the cheek, ‘Now where’s that greatest love story ever filmed?” [ inquired cheery. ‘Over on little old Broadway,” he an- swered, hilarious. ‘‘ Lead us to it!” And we went, tramping in happy march time like the parade of the wooden soldiers. CHAPTER V. KILLING TIME. E sat through two shows. It wasn’t a love story after all, but a picture of wedded life, showing how a neg- lected wife finally commences going with another man because her golf-goofy hubby pays more attention to his putting than his petting. But I didn’t hold it up as no moral to Andy. I was too weary to do anything but set, grabbing his hand grim and think- Eomicbooks:.¢ m