Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 163: what you’re looking at

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

THE WILD BULL OF MONTANA. 317 So during this delightful ramble I have been sort of turning things over in my giant intellect, and have just about decided that the only thing for it is to hire some com- petent gunman to pass out Horace as neatly and painlessly as possible—though in these last respects I am not disposed to be finicky, and the operator may use his own judgment —when along comes Mr. Eddie West, gen- tleman, sportsman, and an intimate friend of mine. I might say, by the way, that at the pres- ent writing, for reasons best known to my- self, I am not quite so strong for Eddie as I might of been at one time. Though, of course, I am not denying that he is one of the best. Anyways, since there seemed to be no way out of it, I stabbed Eddie in the back, you might say, by introducing him and Horace. Also, I informed Mr. Hooper that Mr. West was by way of being one of our leading box-fight impresarios. After which, so’s in order to prevent Mr. Hooper from crashing in—when all communication be- tween I and Eddie would of been perma- nently cut off—I made all haste to ask Eddie how things are going with him. ‘“ Never better,” replies Mr. West cheer- fully. ‘As the matter of fact, I’m on a winner! Listen. If right at this minute, see, I ain’t personally myself the sole mana- ger and proprietor of the world’s next heavyweight champ, I will positively refund your money by return mail!” “No!” says I, properly apressed. _“ Well, whatta you know! Jack Dempsey. the next, eh?” “I’m a Chinaman,” says Eddie, “ if the facts is not precisely as stated!” “Fair enough,” says I. ‘“ Who is the bird?” “The Wild Bull of Montana!” replies Mr. West with pardonable pride. “ How’s that for a subtitle, what? The Wild Bull ‘of Montana! I wrote it myself!” “Eddie,” I admits, “on the square, you got Rudyard Kipling writing advices to the lovelorns. Not so bad!” “Not so bad is right,” agrees Mr. West modestly. “ But, listen. You boys going some place, or merely on your way? What The Wild Bull of Montana! I mean, why not step along to the gym and catch this lad of mine’s stuff? He’s good, what I mean!” “Let’s go,” says I. “But maybe Mr. Hooper would rather be excused,” I adds, with a hopeful look at Horace. “ Delighted!” says Mr. Hooper prompt- ly. “ Possibly I might even put on the gloves for a few moments with this—er— Wild Bull person,” he goes on, with a fallen arch look. ‘“ You know, some years ago I used to be rather handy at the game—not bad at all, if you know what I mean—and lately I’ve really been feeling the lack of exercise.” Well, if that wouldn’t hand you a laugh, then neither would Sir William Rogers, the royal favorite! For, while Mr. Hooper stands a even seventy-two inches amongst his feet, and likewise carries plenty of weight, nevertheless, if that bozo’s an ath- lete, I’m a diving Venus. But for that matter, it is perfectly safe to say that this winsome and demure relative of mine would not hesitate an instant over taking on Bill Tilden at tennis, Johnny Weismuller at swimming, or Paderewski at the piano. “ Sure!” says Eddie, with what certainly looked to me like a sly grin. “ Glad to have you. As the matter of fact, you’ll come in handy as as a match in a cigar store. It’s like this, see. Just now I’m shaping the Wild Bull for a tangle with Kayo Pohlson. There’s one tough egg, but if the Wild Bull don’t take him inside a couple rounds then Man o’ War wasn’t a race horse. And for a fact, you got no idea of what a job it is to keep the Wild Bull in sparring partners. Why, only yesterday he busts a nose for one bimbo and an arm for another, and— well, anyways, if you feel like you needed a little light exercise, why, sure!” es “ Well,” mumbles Mr. Hooper, all of a sudden appearing sort of nervous, for no transparent reason, “ I—well, that’s to say, we'll see.” Well, while Mr. Hooper is making a bum out of the Hon. W. J. Bryan, on the ways to the gym: “ Listen,” I manage to whisper excitedly to Eddie. «“ If this cuckoo puts on the mitts, and the Wild Bull slaps him for a row of hospital cots, Pl —” | (* comicbooks.com —