Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 7, 1928 — page 99: what you’re looking at

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

FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FATE. heart there was a conviction that he could do it. There was no other way to save Roger. If he failed—Bob drew his breath in sharply—the family of Fraser would be wiped out, except for their old grandfather. A glance at his wrist watch showed the time: eight five. At his feet was a stick, a part of a branch of a tree that had been broken off in a recent storm. He picked it up and without hesitation started to cross the marsh. At his first step into the bog he went in over his shoe tops. Then he tried again and again, with the same result. At last he managed to find a footing, but it was at best, slippery and uncer- tain. Slowly, very slowly, he went on, feeling his way with the stick. Step by step he persevered, following as closely as possible the rows of fleur-de-lis that reached out over the marsh, sometimes in a straight line, but often in zigzag turns, making a split trail which con- fused him. So great was Bob’s eagerness to get to the other side, if it was so fated, that he wanted to rush forward, to run, no matter what the difficulty and danger might be. But he resisted the temptation. Each piece of turf and stone he tested before he let his weight upon it. On and on he went, until, at last, he had reached the middle of the swamp. From far away, yet distinct in the clear morning air, came the whistle of a locomotive. Eight ten! All around him was the green, slimy water of the bog. In the bright sun- light of that summer day it gleamed and danced before his eyes. Because of his overwrought condition, a kind of semimadness that had _ suddenly seized him on account of his fear that he might be too late, weird pictures came before Bob Fraser’s eyes. A. thousand faces seemed to be leer- ing at him from below. A thousand 239 hands beckoned to him and reached out their fingers to drag him down. Gaunt, terrible fingers they seemed to him, devil hands that wanted his life and that of his brother Roger. He stopped. His head was in a whirl. A haze came before his eyes. He reached out gropingly, bewildered, in despair. As he started on, one foot slipped, he lost his balance, tried to get a footing, but failed, and floundered into the clinging mire of the marsh. Again came that whistle. This time nearer and more distinct. Fight eleven! In that moment despair clutched Bob Fraser’s heart. He had tried to save Roger, but had seemingly failed. He felt that his strength was not sufficient to carry on the. fight against those hands that were reaching for him. They would get him in the end, he felt quite sure. He would go down, down. There surged over him a great de- sire to live. How young he was to die! Fifteen minutes before, death had not entered his mind. He had thought of nothing but life. There was to be a jolly vacation with his brother Roger and his grand- father at the bungalow on the hilltop. But that seemed ages ago, as he looked at the slimy, murky water of the bog. A little bird flew out and lighted on a reed near by. It cocked its head and looked at Bob in surprise, then broke into song. But a dash of water from the struggling Bob hit the reed; the bird stopped singing suddenly and dart- ed away. There was something in that bird’s song, however, that gave Bob heart again. He must make another effort. He would go down, if need be, but go down fighting. The blood of the Puri- tan Frasers was in his veins. The grim determination that for a century had been a characteristic of his New England ancestors had always been a part of his make-up. Now that it was needed, it did not forsake him. Eight twelve! (©) ANUELOOOLKS (E@)