Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 4, 1925 — page 152: what you’re looking at

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

942 to the complete works of Barney Google, or the like.” And then they say the small town edi- tors are a joke! Woof—that old bird was sharp enough to cut the edge of a razor- blade in half. I decide to take a chance on pulling a new stunt. In different words, I intend to place all my cards on the table and tell the truth! ‘“‘ Mr, Editor,” I begins, ‘ you see before you a ordinary branch of the showman’s tree. What I’m about to ask you to print is guaranteed to be grade-A bunk and pearly piffle. I know that that stamps me as the world’s worst press agent. All right! Now then, another fathead and me are so far broke that even the next meal is doubt- ful. However, we’ve got a idea that we’ve got a idea to earn some innocent money, and I’m asking you to help us out with a little publicity. As I says before, it’s all bunk! But there’s two kinds of bunk. One is bunk bunk and the other is anterest- ing bunk; in other woods, good copy! Meantime, kindly accept this cigar, light it up, and Ill unfold the plot. When I fin- ish, if you don’t like it, just toss me out the window, and let it go at that.” ‘““Young man,” he breaks in, “ this is all like a dream to me. You admit that you’re a showman and a press agent combined, and vet you stand before me and tell me that what you are about to say 1s bunk. Well!” He gets up, grabs his old velour hat off the hook, and starts for the door. ““ Come along, son,” he says, ‘‘ we’ll trot around to Hank Kift’s Restaurant and have a nip. You’re such a positive novelty that I believe I’ll give you a couple of columns. Walk faster, can’t you? You act like you have rheumatism, or something.” I fell in soft, eh? Over the coffee and cake I told Monsieur Editor all about our proposed exhibition of nerve. When I concluded, he says it will make darn live reading and that it will ap- pear in the next issue, out the same day our shows opens. Then he pays for the re- freshments, and if that ever happened to a press agent before, kindly page me! Ina caze, I dash back to the lot and find Joe dabbing away at the signs. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. ‘“ How’d you make out, doc?” he asks, looking up with a paint-smeared face. I told him that everything was all fixed for a pip of a write-up in the paper and that even the editor himself would be down to look uS Over. “Great!” he beams. ‘“ Now all we need is some sap for a hypnotic subject. Go around town and promote some guy that looks so dumb he’d swap diamonds for pan- cakes. The dumber the better. Get one that looks woozy! The woozier, the easier it will be to handle him. By all means, get one that looks stupid. See?” “JT thought you was gonna dig up the subject?” I complains. ‘‘I promoted the editor, and that’s a trick, ain’t it?” ‘Have I gotta leave this artistic work and go around town myself looking up a monkey? For the love of Barnum, hop to it, will you? I can’t do everything!” ‘ All right,” I says, “I'll bring back the fattest fathead in the burg!” As it turned out, I selected the livest piffo in the State! Honest, he was a riot! But —we’ll get to that farce later. I headed for the post office with the idea of selecting a subject from the loungers. No village post office is complete without a flock of haystack philosophers. They toil not, neither do they win. ‘They per- mit their wives to attend to such small mat- ters as work. As I entered, a group were settling the outcome of the next war, why Dempsey never reads Bedtime Stories, why Babe Ruth never paints his bats with mucilage, and one gent was holding forth on the cor- rect solution of why potato bugs never bother orange blossoms. All very impor- tant stuff. However, the flipper that held my un- divided attention was squatting silently near a cracker box, grabbing one now and then, and inspecting the ceiling. He wore a checkerboard suit, with a Mah Jongg ac- cent—whatever that is—while his hat Jooked like a Cincinnati cuspidor with a pink bow on the front. Right away I figured he was the applehead for the job. Jf ever a man looked dumb, and _ then dumber, he was the guy! ‘““ Howdy?” I begins. ‘Are you very An (CO) GIOok