Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 25, 1924 — page 100: what you’re looking at

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

90 for their glasses with one unceremonious and concerted movement, like impatient dogs for their meal. McCorkle drained his glass in one gulp, belched comfortably, and settled back in his cathedral chr. “What was we drinkin’ to?” he asked, holding his glass out for anether serving. “To the blood,” Wing said. “What the hell’s that?” “ She was liftin’ her glass to these here paintin’s,” Wing explained doubtfully. “To the blood of the Raiglons,” the chatelaine said. “To the blood which in all tests demanding either wisdom or valor will tell.” “You was drinkin’ to them paintin’s?” McCorkle chuckled incredulously. “Yes. The portraits of my ancestors— the pirate Raigions.” “ Well, damned if I get that. I thought we was to drink to our good ole hostess— which it is yourself!” She looked up to the six figures. “It is they who are your host!” she said. McCorkle’s big-jowled face reddened, breaking to a leer. He was trying to scoff at the old woman, but for some reason he failed. Wing put down the decanter, which he had been minutely examining. He turned his wet blue eyes toward the chatelaine, his white head nodding from side to side— a different movement than usual—as if re- fusing to believe what he had heard. The octoroon stared, showing his blood clearly by the muddiness of his eyes. “Took here, lady,” McCorkle said se- riously, “ you’re the only Raiglon still liv- in’, ain’t ye—you and your little gal? They ain’t no one else in this house—we know that damned well—no one aside from that there piebald old lummox servin’ us?” “That is all,” she said quietly— ex- cept for those—up there.” The three guests followed her pointing clawlike finger. They stared at the pirate ancestors. “Them?” McCorkle jeered. “ Hell! They’re dead.” He turned to their scion— the old crone. “I said they’re dead—ain’t they?” ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “Yes. For a hundred years. Some for two centuries. Nevertheless, when you came to this house, you came as their guests. It is with them that you will have to reckon.” The octoroon’s lips were trembling. Old Wing darted rapid glances around the room as if he considered the wisest plan to follow would be to gather just such treasures as were within sight, and then escape. McCorkle, the leader, burst out into a derisive guffaw. That laugh was not, however, concocted entirely of derision. You could tell by a certain forced throatiness to it that it was covering up something else—a doubt, per- haps. He had come to fight an old wom- an, a decrepit negro, a girl. Was that all? Perhaps she was right. He would have to combat six figures peering down upon him from the dark walls. He redoubled the strength of his guffaw. And it sounded hollower. CHAPTER XVII. A LIGHT THAT WAS NO VISION. “WA ALIGHT it would be best—afore we - go horsin’ into any of these here other rooms upstairs, to find out where that gal’s at!” This, according to McCorkle, was the next step to take in their business of ran- sacking the house. There was no telling what the girl might do—hiding where she willed. Like as not she would bang away with some old blunderbuss at the first man who wandered too close to her. ** Parson, you go up above and find her. I want to get all three of ’em together afore we go luffin’ up into any of these closets. Otherwise we'll be gettin’ a bellyful of lead amidships first thing we know. Parson, you go above. What’re you waitin’ for?” “Me go—alone, chief?” “Afraid? You afraid? You big lubberin’ halfbreed! I know’d it. Ain’t no better’n little Dorset—you ain’t.” “Two of us could do the job, chief,” Parson begged. “If you send us up separate we’re liable to be come aboard of one at a time.” CORNICLOOOKS (E@)