The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 182: what you’re looking at

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

168 “No. 9874 and No. 9875,” he re- plied. “You two,” proceeded Grant, again addressing the muglugs, “ will proceed to the Hudson River and return by way of the Pleasure Gardens to this office. Be gone an hour—no longer. Go!” He waved his hand authoritatively. One of the muglugs whirled on its iron heel and started out. The other hesi- tated, an ominous, whirring sound issu- ing from its hollow interior. “The sledge, Haskins!” Grant, rising. Haskins gripped an iron hammer that hung in a rack on the wall. At the same moment the defective steel giant rushed at Grant like a modern monster upon puny Frankenstein. Grant leaped clear, and Haskins struck a clanging blow on the muglug’s head with the hammer. A vital spot had been touched, and the power-plug disarranged. The steel warrior clumped down on the floor in a disorganized mass, and twitched and struggled feebly. Haskins bounded into the transmit-room, and could be heard signaling Head Center. “Mug 9875 defective! Withdraw the ray.” Instantly No. 9875 stiffened out, and lay silent and still. | “It happens once in a while,” re- marked Grant grimly. “Call a couple of workers, Haskins, and send 9875 to the repair-shop.”’ As two toilers from the work-shop were carrying away the defective mug- lug, a glittering air-ship hovered sud- denly over the grassy sward between the office and the factory, then dropped lightly and swiftly into the factory hangar. Through the open door of the office Lumley could see a determined-looking man step out of the craft and come down the hangar steps. On either side of him marched a warrior muglug, overlaid with gold and silver filigree- work and armed with an electric rifle. “Now, what’s up?” remarked called THE ARGOSY. Grant, in a puzzled tone. ‘ Here’s the chief dictator, and he isn’t due to in- spect the plant for a week yet. -Some- thing’s wrong, that’s a cinch.” Escorted by his glittering body- guard, Tod Plunkett, the chief dicta- tor, hastened across the strip of lawn and entered the office. CHAPTER XVII. THE LAST STRAW. “How are you, Tod?” cried Lum- ley, rising to greet the chief dictator. “Lumley, old man,” returned Plun- kett effusively, “the sight of you is good for sore eyes. Welcome again to the year 2000! Things are vastly dif- ferent now from what they were on your previous. visit. The: castaways have got a strangle-hold on the times, old chap, and we’re out for reform with a big R. There’s a job waiting for you, and as soon as I got the trans- mit from the muglug factory giving news of your whereabouts, I climbed into the Meteor and flew over this way. “Say, Lumley, you'll never want to - leave. You'll want to cast in your lot with ours and become one of. the dic- tators. All the others who came with you have accepted places of power, and we couldn’t think of leaving you out.” “What’s that?” asked Lumley, thinking he had not heard aright. ‘‘ Do you mean to say that Kinch, Mortimer, Ripley, McWilliams, and—and Dr. Kelpie have become dictators? ” “Exactly!” laughed Tod Plunkett. “Kinch is dictator of the secret serv- ice, and his fees and perquisites should amount to several millions a year. I’ve split up the department of foods, rai- ments, and beverages, and Mortimer goes in as dictator of raiments, while McWilliams rules the beverage bureau. I left Mortimer preparing an edict which makes it a crime to wear bloom- ers of the period, and declares that on and after thirty days from date clothing of the year 1900 must be secured from the tailors of the raiment department. CoOMmicbook CO