Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 7, 1925 — page 74: what you’re looking at

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

By THOMAS P. FRENEY PHEN half the batter had been scorched into flap jacks, Quong — flung a pot lid down on the rusty _ top of the stove. The effect was tremend-_— ous: the log walls seemed to belly outward — from the clangor, Three mounds of blan-_ kets in three box bunks became three — up-sitting men, two of whom fell to cursing the Chinese W ith deliberate thor- oughness. “ Bleakfas’ leady dam’ soon.” Z Ouong did not turn from his cooking. His bent back, its green shirt X-ed by blue overall suspenders, shed epithets as his oiled boots shed water. The man who had not cursed swung sturdy legs over the side of his bunk and reached beneath it for socks. He was younger than the others; not tall, but big- muscléd, thick-bodied, with the face of a fighter who had fought too much. A chin that should have been ample was under- shot: firm lips were drawn down in sullen- ness; well-spaced eyes. were flecked with red and ‘the flesh around them was dark; irri- table little lines roughened his forehead, and unpleasant grooves spread down from the flare of his nose. Badly beaten men in the prize ring come out for the last round with faces like that. ae He dressed ee not Yecking at the ‘two men who got into their elothes on the other side of the cabin. These two looked often at John Dariel while they dressed, and at each other, exchanging glances that came knowingly from corners: “of their eyes. Their faces had not been marked by too much fighting, nor by any. The elder— fleshy, asthmatic Hogan—had a blotchy red face whereon sixty years of aimlessness had left their record beneath a ruddy scalp that had given up its last hair. The other— Evans—was a lanky man of less than forty, with a face that was prepossessing until you noticed his chin. Then you looked again at his other features, and found. as little of purpose there as in Hogan’s. Two men who could not conceivably become so engrossed in any business that they would not have time to stop a while to hear or tell an anecdote—that sort. Evans completed his toilet by running his fingers through his straw-colored hair, and ‘stood up to stretch and yawn. “ Well, boss,” he drawled, = how's tricks _ this mornin’?” 544 | 4A cComicbooks.co ee ... Lm > a