Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 7, 1928 — page 19: what you’re looking at

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

DAMMING HAIRPIN CANON. hold of his other arm, I tell you. With the two of us holding him up, he can probably make it.” But Norman had now pulled himself together, and disclaimed any necessity for assistance. “ Thank you ever so much,” he stam- mered bashfully to the girl. “ But, be- lieve me, I am quite all right. A little soap and water for my face and hands, and a few strokes with a clothes brush will repair all the damage. Please don’t bother any more. I have only my own awkwardness to blame.” _ Nevertheless, she insisted on walk- ing beside him over to the hotel, leav- ing the crestfallen Crawford to stand there in the blazing sunshine, and gape after them uncertainly. Then, as they got out of his earshot her manner changed abruptly. “Listen, Mr. Rich—it is Mr. Rich, isn’t it?—I’ve got to have a talk with you,” she said earnestly, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. “TI drove in to the junction this afternoon solely for that purpose. And yet I don’t want any one to suspect what I am up to. “Let me see; just how shall we manage it?’ She knitted her brows. “You are really sure that you’re not hurtin any way? Well,” as he nodded, “T am afraid you'll have to develop a sprained wrist just the same.” “ Run along and get yourself cleaned up,’ she said; “and when you are all straightened out again meet me in the writing room just off the upper veran- da. And don’t forget,’’ she reminded him under her breath, “ that your right arm is absolutely helpless.” Bewilderedly he went on into the office, remembering his supposed in- jury just in time to avoid a blunder as the clerk poked the pen out to him to register. “ Guess I'll have to ask you to write for me.” He caught himself up as he started to reach for it. “I’ve sprained my ankle—I—I mean my wrist.” ~ His confusion over this slip of the tongue wasn’t helped any by the snick- ers of a couple of tourists leaning against the desk; and he was still red as a beet and cursing himself for his inadvertence when he got to his room. Then, just as he was fairly started on his ablutions, there came a knock at the door; and when he opened it, blinking through the soap in his eyes, a half-breed Mexican bellboy pushed into his arms a great roll of gauze, a box of absorbent cotton, and a huge bottle of liniment. “What's this?” Norman stared at the bundle. “ Some mistake.” “No, senor; he ees for your sore wreest. Mees Mollitod send heem to you.” “ Who?” demanded Norman. “ Oh,” with a flash of inspiration, “ you mean Miss Molly Todd, eh? All right.” And he took the stuff in, and closed the door. But the information he had ex- tracted only served to deepen the mental fog in which he was groping. Molly Todd? She had been away when he was in Los Chicos County before working out his pumping plans, and he had been rather carefully herded off from any of her adherents. But he had heard her name men- tioned not infrequently in the con- versation of the county commissioners, and usually coupled with such uncom- plimentary epithets as “ Pizen scratch- cat,’ and “ Fussy old hen.” From these comments Norman had evolved a mental picture of her as a leather-faced, sharp-nosed, busybody old maid of the type that used to -be caricatured in comic valentines. It took him a moment or two to adjust himself to the fact that the real Molly Todd was none other than the delectable vision who had knocked him endways in more senses than one. Yet, even when he had got that into his head he was still hopelessly at sea. Why was she so anxious to have this private conference with him? It was conceivable, of course, that GO JOO AMG <S) (E@)