Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 23, 1924 — page 118: what you’re looking at

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

276 “This has been covered by a deposit,” she said. “Sure?” inquired the teller doubtfully. She showed the deposit slip and he used the desk telephone again. “Yep. It’s all right now.” “Of course it is,” she replied, smiling. “Tt was just a mistake. Mr. Covert wouldn’t allow one of his checks to be turned down.” She packed the money in her purse and went back to the savings deposit window. ““My gracious, Mrs. Hathaway,” said the bald-headed gentleman behind that grille. ‘‘ You made a quick profit on that four hundred and five! How do you do mS” ‘“* Oh, sometimes there’s a chance to play a sure thing,” she responded. “ But the ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. real sure thing is the little old savings ac- count.”’ She started happily out of the bank, but as she went past the end of the line in front of the paying teller’s window she saw an acquaintance, Mr. E. M. Covert. There was a sult case on the floor beside him, and he was consulting a railroad time-table. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Covert,” said Florence, very cheerfully and with elabo- rate politeness. ‘‘ I just made a deposit for your account. Four hundred and five dol- lars. Here’s the duplicate slip.” Covert stared at her in perplexity. She stepped very close to him and looked him straight in the eye at short range. “ And your balance is now twenty-two cents. Enough to start an honest business. Love- ly morning, isn’t it, Mr. Covert?” Lv) u Le} WOOING WEATHER *'TIS sweetly ring the silver bells like mad imps loosed of tether, And straining steel and leather bear you on with gladsome tug; And ’neath you skims the roadway soft as downy eider’s feather, And hands are clasped together fast beneath the bearskin rug; Oh, that’s the time of cooing, lad, Of daring and of doing, lad, The nipping time of wooing, lad, The time and place to hug. Let scoffers boast of summer joys, but heed no braggart’s boasting; There’s no fun like the coasting on a bob-sled down the hill; And when the play is over and the pretty maid is hosting, And stinging fingers toasting where the kettle’s piping shrill, Ah, that’s the land where bliss is, lad, Don’t mind the steam that hisses, Jad, But take your fill of kisses, lad, While there are lips to thrill. ’Tis sweetly broods the starry night on wold and white brake eery, And logs are singing cheery through the shadow elfins dole, And on her lips are dancing sweet the merry smiles of feary; And never smiles were dreary to a fainting lover’s soul; Ah, then your heart is shriven, lad— ’Twas long since much forgiven, lad— You're at the gates of heaven, lad, And love’s the golden toll. Gordon Johnstone. com COMIC OOOKS