Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 123, No. 4 — page 148: what you’re looking at

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

654 of his book. Part of that rime I might well place at the end of my own, for the consideration of my son John, who may decide for himself, as his namesake has done, whether or not he shall print this less valuable record. Some said, “ John; print it’; others said, “Not so”; Some said it might do good; others said no. At last I thought, since you are thus divided, J print it will, and so the case decided. POSTSCRIPT. May 8, 1672.—Five years later, to’ the pages of this writing, I must add a note. ¥ ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Joyce has rushed to me with the great tidings that John Bunyan has been released from Bedford Jail! As soon as he hath greeted his sweet wife and children, his message says, he will come to Brooke Manor and spend some time fishing with me in Manor Brook. “But I will not have the fishing upon a Sunday,” he writes, ‘for on that day, which is the Lord’s, I would even preach to thy tenants.” , And so he shall when he comes, his - pulpit a mossy rock, his church the green- wood. (The end.) hil wae ee A hd 4 at a W pie I give up a job umpirin’ in the Coast League to manage a semipro ball club in Oregon I thought I was exchangin’ sackcloth and ashes for a couch in paradise. That’s where I got caught a mile off the sack. | Callin’ ’em when they’re over and nearly over is custard compared to runnin’ one of these almost professional outfits. An indi- cator yodler only has to stand for a lot of jawin’ and cussin’ and dodge a bottle or a brick now and then; but the pilot of a half-amateur club—jumpin’ purgatory! He gets the unleavened arsenic. The whole world figures they have as much right to ride you as a jitney bus. The ball-players growl and grumble, the backer of the club throws a fit accompanied } Digitized by Co gle ea A! James W. Egan by acute convulsions every time he blows two bits, the fans pick you for the original fall guy, and probably the town marshal wonders if he oughtn’t toss you in the local hoosegow while he digs up your horrible past. Each time you lose a game you lose your job. Then, as you're leavin’ the burg, broke, they relent and take you back for further punishment. Down in Ashcave; Oregon, I was hired to superintend the baseball attempts of the Ferry Flour Mills talent, and it wasn’t more ’n a week or two before my few re- mainin’ hairs began to fall out. A victory was as much as a dozen right orbs to these millers, and in case of defeat I was the good old angora. LIXNJIIT I