Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 13, 1920 — page 61: what you’re looking at

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

THE CRIMP. the Barbary Coast, hurled the crimp against the fife-rail on the foremast. The preacher’s smile was bland. He swiftly closed the hatch. He drove in a holding-pin with his right heel. He turned to Abie: “YT didn’t drink the knockout drops. I poured it down my shirt-front. I didn’t leave the mission because I like the atmos- phere of this whaler. You see, I am inter- ested in Yetsky Wop and Yetsky’s brother, Angel. Face, the coiner. He is wanted by the government. I'll be promoted for cap- turing him.” Abie did not need to be told Holy Joe’s U 309 right name. He pieced events together. They dove-tailed. The reason for the mis- sionary showing interest in Yetsky Wop— his habit of visiting the hang-outs of crooks —the adept manner in which he picked pockets, all pointed to a crushing conclu- sion. 7 ‘You're Detective Keenon!”’ declared the crimp. The Secret Service man turned up the lower left-hand corner of his vest and showed the insignia of his office. He said with the politest kind of a bow, after glancing at the hatch: “Thanks, Abie!” U BALLADE OF THE GOLDEN FIELDS. "THEY lay beneath the morning sky With opal dews bediamoned, As fair as ever mortal eye Beheld in Arcady outspread; Their fragrance was as attar shed In gardens where the roses creep— The hopes of Youth so fleetly fled— The golden fields we did not reap. _ They stretched, what time the noon was high, And heavens were flawless overhead, And winds to low winds made reply, ’"Twixt hills where peace and plenty wed; They showed bright blossoms blue and red, And promised windrows dense and deep— Hale Manhood’s dreams forever fled— The golden fields we did not reap. — They gleamed, while twilight hours slipped by, ‘By pensive vesper music led, Faint-haloed by the sunset’s dye, Touched by the first star’s silver thread; Illusive as some shining shred Of spray upon a mountain steep— Old Age’s visions vanished— The golden fields we did not reap. ENVOY Prince, we review them with a sigh As we draw nigh the bourn of Sleep, Each dear lost opportunity— The golden fields we did not reap. Clinton Scollard GEomichbooks (E(0)