Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 122: what you’re looking at

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

269 boned, with red hair and freckled face; Bill Fenton, equally as tall, but with black hair, deep brown eyes, and finely chiseled features. Their oddities amused the Academy, and endeared them to all hearts. Their one love was—boxing. Dur- ing the long boxing season, every after- noon saw them, after the day’s classes were done, trotting across Diagonal Walk on the way to the gymnasium. There they went at it, hammer and tongs. It was a moot question which of the two was the better. They had boxed together for three years and some months, since first their gray was new, and yet the championship was still undecided. Bill and Jack had another peculiarity in common: they were woman shy. All West Point knew it. In cadet “B.S. sessions,” during long winter evenings in barracks, whenever the subject of Bill and Jack was brought up, two questions went hand in hand: “Which was the better boxer?” and “\Vonder if they'll ever fall for any woman?” Meanwhile, in the ring, the decisive point of the bout had come. Jack Delany made a feint with his left to Bill’s head. His right was swinging low for an uppercut. But the uppercut never reached Bill’s well proportioned chin. For, there was a noise like a large, flat block of wood falling on still water. Jack had stopped a fast one with the side of his head. The freckled legs of Delany gave way slowly. His long, wiry arms eroped backward for the ropes. In an instant Bill Fenton had his roommate in his arms. “Gee, Jack, I didn’t mean to hit you so hard!” Delany cocked one dizzy blue eye at Bill. “Don’t think about it! If I had started that uppercut a little sooner, you'd be seeing the Milky Way now instead of me.”’ Bill laughed, and clumsily patted > ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Jack’s tan-spotted shoulder with his clove. “Come on, you two!” broke in coach Jim Duffy. “If yez are going to parade to-night, yez had better get a wiggle on.” a Fait. Gray, dismal fall. Wind wrestling crazily with the crackling branches of the trees. Gray was the color of the long line of men that stretched across the dried, faded grass. However, there was one splotch of brighter color. In the center of the line. In that spot were Bill Fenton and Jack Delany. To Bill belonged the honor of supporting the colors of the United States. Jack carried the regi- mental flag of the United States Corps of Cadets. “Not many people at parade. these days,” commented Bill, as the band began augustly to troop the line. Only first classmen and high rank- ing second class corporals could talk ~ at parade, and feel safe in so doing. “Naw,” agreed Jack. “ It’s getting too cold. Wonder when they’re going to stop having the darned things?” “Oh, when the snow gets too deep to wade through,” returned Bill cheer- fully, while sinking his neck deeper in- to the great collar of his caped over- coat. “ Say, Jack, look at that femme up there on the visitors’ benches, the one with the short, gray squirrel coat.” Bill became scornful. “ Wouldn’t you think she’d freeze!” Long before Bill had called his at- tention to the girl, Jack had been look- ing at the trim, crossed legs clad in gray silk. The girl on the bench appeared well aware of her opportunity. Not many yards in front of her, a thousand pairs of eyes were focused in her direction. And those thousand pairs‘of eyes be- longed to a thousand most eligible young men. | COPMNIC LOOKS (E@)