Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 123, No. 3 — page 230: what you’re looking at

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

512 the four hundred didn’t make us feel much better. The following evening, as Mr, Gibilo was preparing his everlasting tea, we heard some one groping up the stairs. A body came through the hole in the wall and prostrated itself on the floor. When it raised its face, I recognized no less a person than one of the Sheikh of Azila’s very dirty slaves! After much beating of the brow on the stone floor, the lowly one burst forth mto Arabic. “ The slave say,” Mr. Gibilo interpreted, ‘“‘that his most sublime master have sent ‘him to beg that you come to Azila at once, or send him magic word. The wonderful engines bicycle have died! He and all Azila U Le} | ; ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. have prayed all day and night in mosque, and holy mens have kept hands on engines bicycle for three times three hours, but it make no move. The Sheikh have even sacrificed three sacred camels and a white cat, but still it do not move. There- fore, he pray you with much weepings and implorings to come, or send magic word!” : “Tell this menial,” said Steve, glaring and. rolling a cigarette, “to instruct his most sublime master to go to—to the near- est garage, and get a gallon of the best gasoline. Or, if he cannot find a garage, just to fill himself with a gallon of Azila whisky, sit on the engines bicycle backward, and breathe regularly against the rear wheel!” U U PADDLE-SONG HAROLD REXFORD LY APPINESS is brimming o’er down along the river—_ Not a care in all the world, and not a thing to dol! Every silvery songster’s throat with melody’s aquiver; Little tufts of snowy fleece are floating in the blue. Rosy glory o’er the hills, flooding. all the valley— .- June time and tune time—and is there any wo? Softly, sweetly, from the south, baby breezes dally; Smoothly glides the light canoe down the river’s flow. _ Voices of the woods and shore the wander- song are singing— Oh, glad song! Oh, mad song! Who would stay at home? Grip the paddle, bend the blade, the water backward flinging— Swirling eddies, rainbow-tinted, churned to milky foam. Through the golden afternoon the boat 4s slowly drifting, Dreamily and drowsily, while fragrant pipes glow red. Soft and low the ripples flow, and pearly light is sitting Through the murmurous arches of the branches overhead. - Purpling vapors wrap the shore all along the river— Beach the boat, pitch the camp, for we have journeyed far. Circling round the fire’s glow; dancing shadows quiver; Tremulous, above the pines, burns a single star. 14 A Original fro Me Onn a _ pee : 7 SS ‘oa a) CO