Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 7, 1928 — page 106: what you’re looking at

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

246 “Yes, dear?” “You're not going to get a big gang of people in, are you?’ Morrow in- quired, with a painful smile. “T don’t know a big gang, Harry.” “No, but I mean—formal?” Henry said, vaguely. ‘I don’t have to dress up for this thing?” ~ We, of -eourse not!’ Eanrm laughed. “T tell you, it isn’t done, up here in Wellmont—no, not even among the really wealthy people, Harry. And, darling, please don’t look so downcast. This is to be just a merry little gather- ing—at least, I hope it is—and not a funeral.” “Yes, Laura, but when a man comes home tired—” “T know,” Laura laughed again. “ A lot of the men seem to feel very much the same way, Harry. Mrs. Harrison says that once in awhile, when she has friends in, her husband takes his pipe and a pile of magazines and goes up and locks himself in the storeroom.” “ Aha?” said Henry, nodding under- standingly. “That bird’s brighter than I thought he was.”’ And again Laura laughed and al- lowed the whole subject to drift gently away; and Henry Morrow returned to his newspaper, felt about for his pencil and decided to do the crossword puzzle on the last page. Obviously, nothing could have been less ominous in prospect than this party of Laura’s. Half a dozen people whom he probably detested, but could cer- tainly endure for one evening—hale of sandwiches—coffee served from Grandma Morrow’s big old solid silver urn—all the dishes in the world to be washed afterward. Why not? Now then, a four-letter word meaning “ ex- pired.” Wednesday started badly. Jones, of the furniture, was waiting when Henry Morrow reached his office. Jones’s professional smile brightly as ever, but there was a hard little glint in his eye when he followed Henry into the private office. beamed ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “Well, well, out collecting again, you see!” he said. “Won't do you much good around here,” Henry stated, as he put his hat in the closet. Mr. Jones carried no sheaf this morning; his nicely manicured fingers held just one bill—Henry’s bill. “You wouldn’t care to give me a check for this to-day, Mr. Morrow?” he smiled, quite seductively. “Tt would not.” “Well, I wish—” “Wait a minute before you tell me what you wish!” Henry snapped. “T’ve said it before and I’m saying it now for the last time: when I bought this stuff you told me specifically that I could take two months to pay, if I liked, and—” “T’m afraid I did that on my own responsibility, sir,” the other inter- rupted. “Does that mean something?” ‘“Well—er—you see, the boss has marked this one for collection now.” SW hy?” “My dear Mr. Morrow, J don’t know!” Jones laughed. “Well, I want to know. up and find out!” “ Er—Mr. Bantick’s not at the store this morning, sir,” Jones said soothing- ly. “And please don’t be offended, Mr. Morrow. You see—” “T’m not!” Henry snapped. “I’m bored stiff, seeing you run in every other day with that bill. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, in all the years I’ve been in business. What’s the idea of it? Are you afraid I’m going to sell this junk and leave town?” Mr. Jones said nothing. “Pretty soon, you know,’ Henry added, “TIl get a truck and have the whole damned collection dumped on your sidewalk!” Mr. Jones laughed heartily at this quaint conceit. “Well, let me make some sort of memo on this account, sir?” he sug- Call him 39 COPNICGLOOKS (C@