Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 7, 1925 — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

ing—well, we’d be slipping into the Dela- ware Water Gap now, driving up to the hotel in a big hired limousine, and a re- spectful porter would say: “Shall I take up Mrs. Gibbons’s bags, sir. I believe you have reserved the best room in the house, suite sixteen, overlooking the balcony.” And Andy would wave the menial to his task and step up to the desk and write: “Mr. Andrew R. Gibbons and wife ef the city of New York ” in a real leather book. And the clerk would bow twice and say: ‘Very good, Mr. Gibbons, and does Mrs. Gibbons desire to have ice water sent to her roome” It was eleven when the silver sheet bid | us good night. We come out, the bright lights of Broadway hurting our eyes, and I took Andy’s arm and promenaded him up the Milky Way to look in little stores at hats and beaded bags that he wanted to buy me, but I wouldn’t let him because he wasn’t my husband. Then my feet commenced reading the riot act and I felt kinda tired all of a sud- den. “Andy,” I says, clutching his shoulder, _ “ what 71] we do now?” He thought a minute. “Eat again!” he suggested, inspired. Here, let’s duck into this joint.” “JT knew we'd end up in the hospital,” I commented, making a survey of the white tiled walls and sterilized table tops. “ Ne, all I want is a cup of coffee — honest, Andy.” “Two cups coffee, a roast beef sand- wich, fried potatoes on the side and apple pie with cream,” he ordered, vigorous. I snickered. Is there any situation in which a man can’t eat? Our Broadway brothers likes to call us the “ bill of fare ex,” but they is at least two times in a woman’s life when the menu means nothing —when she’s happy and when she ain’t. And the assortment of stuff he’d ordered would of upset a cast iron donkey. ‘““Andrew Gibbons,” I expleded, “ you ain’t going to put that junk in your stom- ach this time of night!” ‘“‘ Where will I put it?” he asked, eying me, grumpy. | “Don’t get funny,” I frowned. “You x eughtta have more sense yourself than to order a collection of liver-lambasters like that.” The waiter was standing at attention, an inquisitive look lighting his map. “Did yah wanta change anything?” he inquired, but Andy cut him short with: “The order stands good. Now, make it snappy.” I drew myself up with dignity. “ Andy,” I said, trying to remain calm, “vou ain’t going to touch one morsel of that awful stuff!” “Who says I ain’t?” “J say so.” He smiled, self-contained. “‘ And who are you?” he wanted to know. I gulped. = “ All right, Andy,” I surrendered. “ You win—1I ain’t nobody.”’ Andy shifted his shoulders, huffy. “You was almost forgetting,” he re- minded, “that I am still a happy, carefree 3 bach.” _ At that I flamed. “Well, and you can continue such!’ I erted, hot, “soe far as little Elsie Corbett is concerned.” His face fell, and a plastic surgeon couldn’t of lifted it. “* Aw, Elsie,”’ he pleaded, reaching across the table fer my paw. “ Aw, Elsie, I was only kidding, honest. I—I don’t want to be no care-free bach—- You—didn’t mean what you just said either, I am sure you didn’t, honey?” “Pm usually in the habit of meaning what I say,” I declared, frozen, though commencing to thaw. Silence weighed, but nobody bothered to read the scales. “« All right,” he finally choked, feeling for his hat. I surveyed him, my heart hammering. ‘“‘ Where you going, Andy?” T inquired. “ Out,” he said; his mouth tight. “You set right down again and eat your aimner,” I ordered.“ Look, the guy’s com- ing with the food.” I grabbed a menu, frantic. “ Look, Andy, they got some nice banana fritters on the bill. Why don’t you take some of them, too? They aes real good.” oO EGomicboo E (E() ae - ns r SS and ——=a Sos : es eT ~ = Se a ay eS a Ea ae y~- -_-*, ~ eee Pe ~ y ms =< or — eS ae ee ee SOUT Pa "y PF A ie Mf Ds 8 . NY Wale TE HAR ACAD LE Aa HE gt