Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 141: what you’re looking at

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

CHARLIE CHONG, A. M. osophy, ‘“‘so watch the announcements of the Temple of Thrift for further bargains.” Harry Estcourt laughingly scrawled his O. K. upon the page proof, which was more than Greek to him, for Charlie Chong had not seen fit to point out the liberty he had taken with the original text. Again, with Bong Lee’s aid, the paper was put to press and Charlie Chong, with heart high and hopeful, retired in the early hours of the morning confident that time alone separated him from victory. He had asked his quaint be-trousered mother to call him early that he might marshal his aids under the banners of Ho Si Bing and Bong Lee and at the same time keep these warring clans far separated. But sleep proved like Chan Sha, the Daphne of the Chinese, ever eluding and the first coral rays of a new day were danc- ing through his down drawn curtain when he finally sank into slumber. He awoke with a start and glared in- credulously at the clock upon the chair be- side his bed. It was past noon and— He threw on his clothes to dash into the kitchen where he found his mother preparing a ay tempting omlette of sprouts and shrimps. “TI must have forgotten to ask you to call me, revered mother,” he said with that deference a Chinese always shows his par- ents. “You told me,” she replied with an ad- miring smile and then like the mothers of all races—of all ages: ‘‘ You were sleeping so soundly and you have been working so hard of late that—” ‘Tam sorry,” he murmured, as he gulped his food. ‘I must hurry.” A cumulus of darkening doubt, forebod- ing fear, gathered over him as the spindling legs coursed down Sacramento Street to Grant Avenue and then turned south toward the American section of the city. The five and ten cent store opened at nine o’clock and Charlie Chong had intended to super- intend the activities of Ho Si Bing, Bong Lee and their entourages. Now—the morning was gone and after- noon at hand. In half an hour he would be due to report at the Chung Mei Bo. His employer would be at hand, for Tze Mong had planned to be at his own desk by noon. : ; oe “Tt is too bad—my carelessness—™” The young man’s steps quickened. ° Then. flashed the thought cf the carnage. that might ensue if Ho Si Bing and Bong Lee met in the store, each at the head of rival cohorts. The vision spurred him, al- most to a run. As he turned the corner at Sutter Street and Grant Avenue, his speeding feet were shocked to immobility. Before the doors of the five and ten cent store—halfway. up the block—a veritable mob was milling. From the vortex of the swirling mass came shouts, screams, piercing Chinese oaths—curses that start where the Anglo- Saxon leaves off and mount in geometrical proportion until each word is soul searing. But under the sharp, distinguishable cries that reached his ears, loomed a sullen major tone—the dull roar of the mob, the roar of a mob seeking a victim. His feet itched to go in another direction, but his eyes chained him to the spot. victim sought, his mind told him, but his eyes demanded that the feet stay there. With brazen clangor, a police ambulance coursed up the street and stopped with shrieking brakes before the store. Fasci- nated, Charlie Chong watched the grim dis- patch with which the attendants unfolded the stretchers, stretchers intended for— The young man gasped as this avenue ae : of possibilities opened before him. Petrified he stood and stared. A patrol wagon dashed up in the wake ; of the ambulance and a swarm of blue-coats With flailing night-sticks — they clubbed their way through the crowd - was disgorged. to permit the ambulance surgeon and his aids to reach the scerie of bloodshed. The roar of the mob was no longer dull ¥ and sullen, but crescendoed with the cries of those whose skulls had felt the flailing — night-sticks. From out the human maelstrom, Charlie | Chong saw a small, but aged man wriggle himself free and dash away. His clothes were streaming ribbons that trailed out be- | hind him as he raced toward Stockton Street, but as he broke through the crowd, the young editor had glimpsed his features. . Even at that distance, he knew the skull- like head could have belonged to but one man in all the world. oO ABIL He might be the — “comicbooks:co