Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 64: what you’re looking at

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

- boots, a light-blue silk shirt, a dark-blue necktie and a soft brown leather hunting jacket. He didn’t wear a cap, and his hair was black and thick and wavy. I’m a poor judge of a man’t looks, but I knew somehow that any woman would think he was mighty good looking. He was tall and lean and broad-shouldered, and his skin was a rich tan from outdoor living. I guess the word that sums him up best is aristocratic, Everything about him was in that key—his face, his clothes, the way he carried himself. It was his quick, clean smile that I re- member best. It came so easily; and you knew that he was finding the world a pretty agreeable place to live in. At that moment, when he climbed down from that gray panther of a car, he must have taken me for a regular backwoods grouch, I was just sore at the interruption. “Gee whiz!” Alvina whispered. whiz!” ‘Ae came straight to me with his hand outstretched. “Good morning!” he said in a deep, cultured voice. ‘‘I didn’t suppose any- - body in the world was up so early but myself.”” He grasped my hand. “* My name is Anatole Logan. You're the sheriff and game warden, aren’t you?” “And the postmaster and the grocery storekeeper and the notary public,” Alvina put in in her low, velvety voice. I introduced them. Well, he hardly glanced at her. Just bowed formally and smiled, then turned back to me. It must have been a big surprise to Alvina, having any man treat her that way. Anatole Logan, so I found out later, was the first man of that type she had ever known. Most men turned beet-red and became speechless when they met Alvina, but Anatole Logan apparently wasn’t even in- terested. “The garage man in Ormond told me I could find plenty of quail out here,” Mr. Logan explained himself, ‘‘ and he told me to look you up, as you were pretty strict with Northerners about hunting permits. Well, here’s my permit.” And he handed me the slip. ‘‘ Now, how about quail?” “There’s plenty of quail all through * Gee ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. here,” I told him, ‘ but of course you ought to know just about where the coveys’ve been seen. I don’t do much hunting myself, and I haven’t seen many quail so far this fall.” “ There’re loads of them!” Alvina broke in eagerly. “ I saw forty of them yesterday behind the old Dimlock place.” “T didn’t bring my dogs South,” the young man said, “and I don’t suppose there’s such an animal here as a guide.” “Tl show you where they are!” Alvina cried. And for the first time he really looked at her, and his smile slowly went away. Y “‘T love to hunt! And I’m teaching these pups to fetch. They’ll fetch rabbits and squirrels already. I’d like to try them on quail.” There was a note in her voice that I had never heard in it before, a sort of pleading note. And she looked embarrassed. The young fellow hesitated. ‘ Well,” he said finally, “it’s mighty kind of you, but—” “I'd love to!” Well—” “You can leave your car parked right here. Buck’ll look after it, won’t you, ~ Buck?” Sure,” -T- said.“ Sure.” “We'll try that broom sage field first,” Alvina said eagerly. ‘“ And we’ll cut right around to behind the Dimlock place.” They started across the road to the broom sage field, the two fox terriers trot- ting along at heel. Presently, I could see nothing but their heads above the broom sage. Then, suddenly the shotgun went off, both barrels, one after the other. The dogs started to bark and Alvina gave a little shriek. Then, in the silence, came the low, un- earthly, quivery note of Alvina’s whistle. It brought every nerve in my body awake, alert and tense. That whistle of death! And I wondered what impression it was making on Anatole Logan. It was almost noon when they returned. The young fellow did not come into the store. I heard the grating of the self- starter, then the low whine of the gears as he drove away; and Alvina came in. A o Eomichboo SSO) ff