Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 91: what you’re looking at

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

BUSTER. our house, with a window front and back, making a cool breeze overhead in summer. 4 planted Buster in the middle of this room and hastily backed down the ladder again. As I closed the trapdoor I seen that he had become interested in the ge- ometry of a spider web and was perfectly at home. Chuckling, I resumed my work and waited for Roy. I was almost devilish in my satisfaction at the thought of Roy’s fruitless honking— of the absence of that crazy streak of joy that always rushed out to meet him. It took me fifteen minutes to peel one potato. Abstracted, I looked out of the kitchen window, watching the western sky change colors like it was being painted by a temperamental artist who didn’t know exactly what he wanted. In the next yard stood the silent figure of my neighbor, gazing mournful at the rows of seed packets, all that yet showed for his spring planting. Upstairs I heard the aimless pattering of Buster’s paws. Where was Roy? Would he be late com- ing home to-day of all days? But at five fifty sharp come his long an- nouncing honk, the distant rattling of the left loose front fender. Another honk, in- quiring, insistent. Upstairs commenced a mad, frenzied scrambling, a running back and forth of frantic feet. Then another honk, stern, commanding. T seen it—a tiny brown body hurtling through the air from the back upper win- dow—a high, shrill scream as Buster went to meet his master—and his death. , I shut my eyes, suddenly sick. I heard the hasty banging of the car door as Roy leaped out—then his muttered sob. I kept on peeling a potato till there was nothing left of it, while the sunset blurred against my eyelids and my heart stood still. Then I heard Roy’s heavy tread as he went down the outside cellar steps — the sudden sharp ring of a shovel on the cement walk, TT. It must have been almost an hour later when he finally come into the Ratebes, his eyes somber with Sorrow. 561 “Look—out there,’ he said, with a jerky nod of his head. I went to the door and looked. By the tool house, in the shade where Buster al- ways used to bury his left overs, fluttered a cardboard sign that read, ‘“ Here Lies the Bones of Buster.” On Roy’s face was a terrible, twisty smile. “But he met. me at that,” he said. “Nothing could stop Aim—coming.” He turned and retreated, choking, to the little room he called his den, It was bedtime when he come out, calm now, with a relentless way of looking through me that chilled my heart. “It’s gonna turn cool to-night,” he stated formally. ‘“ Guess I'll go down and stir up the furnace.” On the way he picked up the black sweater from beneath the kitchen talile, and I never seen it again. From the bathroom door he called out once that he wouldn’t be needing break- fast in the morning. He had to get up early, and he would pick up something to eat down to the factory. Numb, I sat in our little parlor, rock- ing. Finally he come beside me, wrapped close in his woolly old bath robe. “Are you going to sit up awhile?” he inquired, pleasant. “Well, good night, then, Molly.” For a minute his hand lay on my shoul- der, almost soothing. Then he wheeled and went. And when I at last tiptoed to our bedroom and switched on the light I found him sleeping, his face buried deep in the pillow. All night I laid awake, still seeing his somber eyes bent on me in the dark, still hearing that patter of little paws overhead. And with morning come my decision. There was only one thing left to do— go. When you have killed the one thing that is precious to somebody, you can’t go on living with them, with their eyes stead- fast on you— knowing eyes — accusing eyes. It took me all day to pack, and on top of that I had to plan a cold supper to leave - on the table for Roy when he come home. — Where I was going I didn’t gba having } ; Hi nt ; f , is, Comicbooks.com