Argosy, Vol. 85, No. 3 — page 69: what you’re looking at

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

THE WOLFER. of the figure that they worshipped in their favorite movies, but not so with Sheila. She knew in a moment that he was the type of man her ancestors had been — red-blooded individuals who did not need gaudy neckties nor suéde tops tc their shoes to make their women love them. . Their first conversation had _ taken place while Bronson was waiting to get into Mr. Hamilton’s room; Bronson, as was the habit of the out-of-town men who were practically visitors, came wan- dering into the sales-manager’s office, and stood looking down at Sheila’s fingers as. they scarcely touched the keys of her machine. ‘“Some different from the way we do things in my country.” Sheila did not answer him at once; she finished the letter, and then, looking up into his face, asked him where his coun- try was, and if he didn’t hate the city. ‘“‘ Hate it?” He shrugged his shoul- ders. ‘‘ No; only people who live in the city hate the place. Folks like I am know they don’t have to stay here—it’s a lark to us.” “Only people that live in cities hate them,”’ Sheila was thinking aloud, at the same time mechanically arranging her papers for the next letter. ‘“ Yes, I think you're right; and I’ve lived here forever and forever.” An insistent telephone-bell called her then, and Bronson left the room. How- ever, when he saw Hamilton, the head of the company that was disposing of his cattle for him, he asked about the little, black-eyed girl who had a desk .in the room at the end of the hall. : ‘“‘ Who—Sheila? Why, she’s Philipse’s secretary. Philipse is head of the sales department, and I guess he couldn’t get on without Sheila McNeil. She’s been here some time, and to be truthful with you, it’s rather interesting to me to watch those two. I used to think that they were in love; but I guess not, for Philipse has taken a wife—and Sheila is still— Sheila. Why did you ask about her?”’ 411 “ Nothing.” ‘““Come, Bronson —confess. You’ve been talking to her, and think she’s the quickest, brightest little girl you’ve ever seen. I know—I’m an old man, but I am still able to recognize one of God’s little ladies. If I wasn’t afraid by the color of your face that you’d propose to her and disrupt my sales department, I’d send for her and give you a proper intro- duction.” ‘““T wish you would,” Bronson spoke before he realized it, and Hamilton laughed heartily. ‘““T will—just to prevent you from put- ting her over your shoulder and walking off with her. And remember, Bronson, she’s a product of civilization, not a cave- woman from your native bad lands.” Hamilton pressed the button that sum- moned his secretary, and asked for Miss McNeil. He sat back in his chair and smiled at Bronson’s efforts to be uncon- cerned, thinking the while that Sheila would laugh at the. cattleman. ‘““ Miss McNeil—this is Mr. Bronson.” Hamilton introduced them. “ He’s been asking about you, and I haven’t told him much. I am going to let you have first advantage, and say he’s a great big boy who’s never been east of St. Louis be- fore in his life. He’s got a cattle ranch and half a million dollars, a good dispo- sition, and absolutely no knowledge of the polite way to talk to a lady.” ‘““Oh, come, Mr.. Hamilton,” Bronson broke in, “I'll admit to part of that speech, but I do make objection to the end of it.” ‘‘ And so do I,” Sheila added. see, he’s spoken to me already.” “Yes, and his conscience pricked him so that he demanded this introduction.” Poor Bronson! His hands twisted the pencil he had picked from Hamilton’s desk, and he tried to hide his discomfort by smiling. Hamilton, his keen sense for laughable situations photographing both expressions, was thinking what a splendid story it would make to tell at the club. ‘* Really, it’s most rude of Mr. Ham- You comicloool C©