Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 3, 1924 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

808 the mahogany. It was like the flourish of a man signing his name to a contract. * What’s your pleasure, gents?” he asked. The answer to this came from somewhere in back of Cora and Herzog—in the direc- tion of the vestibule of the café. They turned to see a big shouldered Mexican, with a peppered jaw sticking from under the shadow of a sombrero. ‘ To kill all enemies of the General Papa- quillo—ees my pleasure!” he said, support- ing his reeling weight against the arched adobe. ‘“‘ There we have one of our regular nui- sances,” Herzog said, pointing his stubby thumb over his shoulder. ‘ Always comin’ around teed to his yellow, slantin’ eyes, wanting to knife us for not being Mex!” “ Mv father fought for Papaquillo!” the “nuisance ’’ went on. ‘“ By Santa Barbara de Nacozari! I fight /is fight.” ‘Bounce him and yourre hired,” Cora remarked casually to Al Boscoe. Al Boscoe poured a drink, set it on a plat- ter and came from behind the bar. ‘Here you are, Mr. Mex!” “ You like for me to drink?” the hulking renegade asked with a touch of surprise. “ You are my frand, I think so! I drink!” * You'll drink all righto. And when you drink say, ‘ Here’s to the President!’ ” The Mexican lifted his glass obediently. Then he looked into Al Boscoe’s face, some- what befuddled. ‘“ Dam’ to ’ell! I drink to El Papaquillo—who fight the glorious battle—”’ “To the President!’? Al Boscoe roared, balancing his tremendous weight on his toes. “ Bueno! He ees good man, too!” He raised his glass dramatically. “To El Presidente! Bueno! El Presidente of Mex—” But his jaw clapped tight upon the last word. Cora saw. She intertwined her fin- gers and put them to her heart. It was marvelous. The big Mexican slipped down before Al Boscoe’s fist so softly, noiselessly, that even the pigeons did not at first realize some one had joined them in the sawdust. “It’s wonderful!” Cora murmured worshipfully. ‘“‘ You’re a prince—a cham- pion! From now on there's goin’ to be peace in this joint!” ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. ‘From now on there’s goin’ to be hell!” Herzog grumbled ominously. Al Boscoe returned and again his huge arm swept the mahogany bar with a semi- circular flourish. ‘* Am I hired?” he asked. Herzog looked down at the gvrating arm. He observed that Al Boscoe had a disagree- able peculiarity of wiping that bar as if he were a boxer sparring for an opening. The little innkeeper feeling the insult and the threat of that elbow, knew that there was not room enough for two to remain behind that bar. Herzog came out. CHAPTER IIT. THE CREDENTIALS OF THE MATE. L BOSCOE had found the haven that every mariner looks forward to. He was not yet a man old enough to retire, but he had looked out for a chance to escape from a too arduous life ever since he was a boy. His career had not been quite so picturesque as that of the general run of seafarers. He was not in fact what a mariner would call a deep sea man. His life had been spent on the river boats of the Mississippi, on the waterfront of New Orleans, in the shack camps and the shrimp platforms of the delta, as a cook on a cattle boat, a steward on a puffing stern wheeler that plied between Natchez and Baton Rouge. He had much experience in serving drinks and braining intoxicated col- ored gentlemen. At last Al Boscoe had come into a haven. The Sundown Café with the lazy voice of the palmettos and the gurgling fountain in the patio was particularly alluring to a tidewater sailor. He also, through some curious perversion, fancied Cora. The new bartender of the Sundown Café was In some respects a valuable asset. As Cora pointed out to her husband—if they had had this splendid brute to protect them that night when the Orinoco anchored they might have come out a little better in the battle pitched on that occasion. Instead there had been a miserable little Mexican serving the drinks—a mozo who rightly COMIG DOO! (©