Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 17, 1924 — page 37: what you’re looking at

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

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE. throw away fifty quid fer a girl?” Then he continued hurriedly: “‘ Look ’ere, cully, I’ve taken a shine to you. We’re goin’ ter be pals, see? You hacted like a gen’man abart ’aving yer pocket picked. Most coveys make a bleedin’ fuss an’ tike most o’ my pleasure aw’y. But, you— Besides, I owes yer somefing fer torkin’ right hup to hold greasy Isaacs and that lout, Smithers. Blast both of ’°em! They did me dirt w’en { was a green’orn hout ’ere. ’Course, I’ve mined afore—in Haustralia: yer thought I was a Limey, didn’t yer? But Hi ain't. Sydney’s my ’ome—but I didn’t know the ropes hout ’ere; I didn’t know wot was wot —specially not abart diamonds—an’ they rooked me hout hof a good claim. The—” Hardwick moved impatiently—and yet he found himself liking the loquacious little man, rogue though he might be. ‘‘ An’ so we’re goin’ ter be partners,” Gin- ger Dick concluded flatly. Hardwick smiled. “Tm afraid I’d be no good at picking pockets,” he said. Ginger Dick’s eyes twinkled. “Tumme! I don’t fink you would,” he agreed. “ But ’ow abart selling rot-gut gin to the blacks—there’s money in that an’ hit takes two men to ’andle hit properly.” “No,” Hardwick said slowly. “I don’t think I could do that, either.” Ginger Dick snorted. “ Vou’re too bloomin’ soft ’earted. Then ‘ow abart waitin’ hout there on the veldt an’ knockin’ down blacks who are goin’ ’ome from the mines an’ takin’ their pay from Hardwick shook his head, but his attempt to look stern utterly failed. = “Lumme!” grumbled Ginger Dick. “ Vou’re a ’ell of a pal fer a covey like me. Yer can’t afford ter be sentimental in this bleedin’ country, I tell yer. An’ so, Hi supposes as ’ow we'll ’ave ter be ’onest?”’ “Tm afraid we will,” agreed Hardwick. “ Then you say wot hit shall be. I’m as ignerant as a kid abart things like that.” “ Well ” — Hardwick hesitated — “ well, I'd like to find the girl who owns the prop- erty Isaacs & Smithers are interested in. Perhaps it’s valuable.” Ginger Dick’s face lighted up. 187 “ An’ hif hit is,” he said breathlessly, “‘ we can do ’er hout hof hit.” But Hardwick did not answer. He was watching the little procession which was coming slowly down the street—a rickety Scotch cart drawn by four undersized don- keys driven by an aged, wizen faced native. Walking beside the cart was Smithers, who argued heatedly with a slim, bare footed, youthful person clad in wide, tattered trou- sers, khaki shirt, and large slouch hat, in the front of which an ostrich plume nod- ded jauntily. This youthful personage was riding a razor-backed mule. III. “LumMeE!” exclaimed Ginger Dick. “Twig the scarecrow on the mule!” The little party had now come to a halt, in a cloud of dust of their own creation, op- posite the hotel, and Hardwick could see that Smithers’s face was red with poorly suppressed anger. ‘Get down and have a drink,” Smithers said thickly. Hardwick was surprised at the clear, bell- like soprano of the ‘“‘ scarecrow’s ” voice and wondered at the queer sounding clipped vowels. “Ach sis! No, I tell you ma-an. Let go the rein. Let go!” The voice rose to a shrill key and was answered by a deep, mocking laugh. “You little spitfire!”’ he exclaimed, grab- bing at, but missing, the sjambok—the whip of rhinoceros hide—which the other held upraised menacingly. He now took a firmer hold of the bridle reins, close to the mule’s jaws, and started to twist the beast’s head sidewise, pulling toward him, exerting all his strength. “Stop! Now, ma-an, I warn you, stop!” the scarecrow cried. ‘ If you don’t—”’ “ Not unless you get off and come have a drink with me. If you won’t, I'll throw this brute and carry you in. So you'd better come quietly.” The mule struggled, but ineffectively; it could not break loose from the man’s hold, and as Smithers now leaned against its withers it was plain that in another moment or so the mule would lose its balance. COnmmicloool< (C@