Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 12, 1927 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

THE RETURN OF GEORGE WASHINGTON. He’s somehow got it into his head that you're in charge. He wants to talk to you alone.”’ Larry, for the first time that evening, smiled. To Grenville Brown he said: “ Did you hear that?” <4 No! ») “ Washington wants to see me alone.” “‘ Apple sauce! You framed it up.” Larry’s triumphant little smile vanished. He leaned over the railing and snarled into Brown’s face: “You can go to the devil!” CHAPTER XXIII. A TALK TO MILLIONS. EORGE WASHINGTON was seated at the long table in the library when» Larry went in. There was a glass of milk in one hand and a sandwich in the other. Bewilderment lingered in his face. Aunt Sally was bending over him solicitously. “Tsn’t he too marvelous for words?” she demanded. Washington frowned, but did _ not acknowledge her presence otherwise. Polly fluttered about behind his chair, as if she longed to touch him. “He simply doesn’t realize a thing,” Aunt Sally exclaimed. ‘“ Mr. Galloway, was there ever such a moment in the history of the world? Aren’t you positively thrilled to the core? You poor boy, you look ab- solutely all in.” “Tam all in.” For perhaps the first time in her life, he realized, Aunt Sally was satisfying her greed for sensation. ‘““T was just asking President Washington about his wife, but he doesn’t remember her. Isn’t it weird?” “T am not married,’ Washington said wearily. “Her name,” Aunt Sally reminded the dazed man joyously, ‘“‘ was Betsy Ross.” “Her name,” Larry wearily. corrected her, “ happened to be Martha Custis.” __ Aunt Sally’s laughter was silver sleigh bells on a frosty night. “ History never did like me.” o71 A tapping occurred at the window. Larry raised the shade and peered out. A man in khaki overalls raised a nickeled micro- phone into the light. A black wire at- tached to it vanished among the trees. Larry lifted the window. The man, grinning nervously, said: “It’s plugged in, Mr. Galloway. Just put it on the table between you and—um— Mr. Washington. About fifty million people will hear every word you say, so don’t do any cussing or we’ll have to yank you off the air!” Larry pulled in a dozen feet of the wire, shut the window and lowered the shade. He placed the shining instrument on the table a few feet from George Washington. The bewildered young man stared at the microphone. And from the microphone he glanced quickly at Larry. Larry seated himself across from him. He said: “‘ You wanted to talk to me, Mr, Washington?” Washington answered: “I want an ex- planation. I want to know what I am doing here. I want to know who these ladies are. You are the first one I can remember seeing when—when—’’ He stopped. “When you came back to life?” “T do not understand. I understand nothing of what is happening. What is that thing?” “ That,” Larry answered, “is called a microphone.” ‘What is its purpose?” Larry drew a deep breath. How could one explain the abstruse mysteries of radio to a man who had died before any practical application of electricity had been at- tempted; to a man who had died before the telephone, the telegraph, the electric light, the electric motor existed? “ This,” he slowly replied, “is a device by which your voice and my voice are being transmitted to all parts of the American continent.” Washington interrupted: ‘“ Who are your” : “My name is Lawrence Galloway. I am the managing editor of a New York news- paper.” : “ Will you explain my presence in this place?” EOMIEE DOOKS (E@)