Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 7, 1922 — page 155: what you’re looking at

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

SAMARITAN STUFF FOR ’CILLA. out at the cafeteria next day ’Cilla was not in her usual place. Nor did she show up. Worried, I asked about her. Nobody knew. “Maybe she’s sick,” said the boss. “‘ Hasn’t a phone, either.” Well, perhaps she wasn’t feeling so good. Little wonder. I had her address, and I made up my mind to go out and see her as soon as my chores in the chow emporium were over for the day. A few minutes after nine o’clock I re- ceived a ring from Vic Jordan. ““ Any news?” I demanded. “Plenty.” His voice sounded queer. ‘Sam did find Glendon last night, Jackie.” “‘ Good!” I contributed. “Not so good, either. Guess this Glen- don is an athlete or something. At any rate, Sam sure took a beating! You oughta see him! No wonder he «didn’t come back last night.” “ That Bertie thing licked Sam?” My, I was surprised! “Tf he didn’t Sam’s face is a terrible liar, Jackie. started bawling him for taking money from a girl—and Glendon sailed right into him. And then it happened. Sam is pretty sore at me and you and ’Cilla and the world to-day. He thinks it’s a mistake of some kind, and that Glendon—” ‘“‘ Mistake nothing!” I retort. “ The big mistake is that Sam ain’t the fighter he oughta be. Too bad you didn’t go with him, as you intended.” “Maybe it ain’t so bad as you think. I mighta been licked, too. I guess ’Cilla can have her Glendon now, if she can catch him. Sam Cooley insists he’s thrcugh.” “The big coward!” I said angrily, and hung up forgetting to mention the Nebraska girl hadn’t come down to work. My customers must have found me grouchy during the rest of the morning. I lunched alone, and when the noon jam was over I was in a grumpy humor. Hardly anyone was eating, and I had plenty of time to think. “Beg pardon!” A voice startled me into activity. Then I observed the speaker carried no tray. He was a large, stern looking man, well-dressed, and a dead image of an actor Seems Sam found him and 301 who had played the part of a detective in the last movie Vic Jordan had taken me to. “Your name ain’t Parish, is it?” queried this person. ““ No; she works next to me, but is off to-day,” I replied, quite curious. ‘“‘ She knows a young man named Glen- don, I believe. Perhaps you know him?” ‘Yes, I know him.” This man was a detective! I had it. And the athletic Bertrand was being sought for some crime. Perhaps he was a far more dangerous character than we’d dreamed. “You do? Good!” The stern face lightened. “I’m mighty anxious to find him. He—” } ‘“‘ Looking for him, huh?” I remarked. “ Detective, ain’t you?” I added slyly. ““A detective! Why, my dear young woman—” He didn’t finish. For into the cafeteria walked Bertrand himself, still as sleek as ever. And hanging on his arm, seeming as happy as folks with oil on the old farm, was ’Cilla Parish! . ““ Bert!” cried the stern old guy. “* Well—dad!” You oughta seen them shake hands! I was a trifle dizzy by now, but I man- aged to listen in on what was said. ‘““ How did you ever get out here, dad?” demanded Bertrand. “The minute I got your letter saying you wanted to marry a girl who worked in a cafeteria, I left Wall Street flat on its back and dashed out to—” ‘““Not to try to stop me, dad, surely? It’s to late, anyhow. ’Cilla and I were married this morning!”’ Nobody noticed me stagger, I guess. “This is the girl you married?” The elder Glendon glanced at the Nebraska miss. “My wife ’Cilla!” proudly introduced his son. “Lucky young dog!” The old man grinned. “ No, I didn’t come out to stop you if you found the right kinda girl—and you certainly have, if I’m any judge. My main reason was to patch up our little difference, coax you back to the firm, and tell you to forget this movie junk!” Co DOOK AMC C©