Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 12, 1927 — page 163: what you’re looking at

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

= URE AND BROKE. hat. A strong arm pushed him away good- humoredly. ‘‘ Not a chance, buddy. Move cn.” Brad moved on to the next policeman and explained himself in desperate earnest- ness. “Naw,” said the cop. ‘“ Not if you was the mayor himself. Hey, stand aside and let the gentlemen through, will ya?” The crowd eddied, and Brad was pushed back unceremoniously. A red-faced patrol- man was escorting several silk-hatted, frock- coated dignitaries toward the grand stand. ‘‘ Members of the welcome committee,” said an awed voice in Brad’s ear. ‘“ They all gotta wear them silk hats and comedy clothes.”’ Again Brad fought his way by painful steps to the police line, and again was turned away and shoved back unceremo- niously. He was lost, deep in the impa- tient crowd, lost and despairing. Again he saw a lane opened by the bluecoats and another silk-hatted dignitary pressing for- ward toward the official reviewing stand. A weary little man, wedged so closely against Brad that his straw hat was knocked over one eye, groaned up at him: “Look at that! He gets a cop to make way for him, and all we get is a kick in the shins. I’d give ten dollars right now if I was wearing a stovepipe hat. Hey, whatcha tryin’, fella? You going cuckoo?”’ Brad acted for the moment like a man going mad. ‘Turning about face, he was fighting his way out of the crowd as hard and fast as he recently had fought to get in. Behind him he left a trail of caustic comments and bruised shins and ribs. Once free of the crowd, he ran toward a passing surface car and swung himself aboard. Ten minutes later Brad was in the office of the truckman who had hired him. Five minutes after that, thanks to the elo- quence of desperation, he emerged clutch- ing another five-dollar bill. A pawnshop was his next port of call. Not thirty minutes, counting from the - moment of overhearing that chance re- mark, Brad Harper, silk-hatted, frock- coated, and desperate, again neared the of- ficial viewing stand and made straight for the nearest police officer. 637 Brad’s heart pounded; fear constricted his throat, fear lest the rented and none- too-well-fitting finery should be subjected to close scrutiny. The frock coat bunched about his shoulders, and the silk hat, three sizes too large, threatened momentarily to slip off its resting place upon his ample ears and eclipse his face from view. But Brad Harper was desperate. For Alicia and married bliss he was staking his all. He thrust out his chest and caught the bluecoat by the arm. “Officer, get me into the stand. I’m very late,” he said sternly. “It’s a shame a man’s car can’t get through on official business! ” Would it work? Could it be possible a hard boiled New York cop could be bluffed thus? It was! “Yes, sir,” said the cop. ‘ Just be after sticking close at my heels, sir. Hey, youse, gangway! Ohne side, you folks! Oh, ser- geant, gimme a hand here, will ya?” In a moment the crowd engulfed them. Then Brad was safe. : What if the silk hat was knocked over one eye now? Pushed by the mob, any dignitary’s silk hat loses its pristine glory. Brad Harper looked as much a member of the welcome committee as any late arrivals who had fought their way through that mob. “Find me Mr. Marcy,” Brad said grandly to his own special cop. “ I’ve got to see him at once.” Dutifully the cop inquired. Word passed back among the silk-hatted ranks. Jerome Marcy threaded his way forward, puzzled, curious, feeling a little honored by the attentions of a man who could com- mand special police service of his own on such an occasion. Marcy peered into a face that was strange to him, rather a youngish, flushed and desperate face. But he was a man who met many distinguished men, and sometimes forgot faces he should remem- ber. He said: “ Ah, yes, Mr.—ah—”’ “Mr. Bradley Harper, Mr. Marcy. ‘A close personal friend of Colonel Miiler Hale Connaught—and I’ve got to talk to you this morning—” Gomichbook (E@)