Books › Blue Book v018 n04 [1914-02], 1914 › scan 197
Scan 197
Blue Book v018 n04 [1914-02], 1914
58 lines. Read by computer on 18 September 2026. No printed page number was found. See the scan on archive.org.
1"How much is it in for?" asked Carney.
3"Four and a half was all I could get on it," said Artie.
5Carney knitted his brows and watched Artie snip off the one branch of the rose bush which had any signs of vigor in it.
7"Ye'd oughter keep up yer practice now ye're doin' nothin' else," said he. "'Twould be a rare time for ye to be practicin' on the flute. Ye have to make queer noises in some of yer practice exercises, don't ye?"
9"I guess I make 'em, whether I have to or not," said Artie with a grin.
11"Ye'd be willin' to do me a little favor?" asked Carney, leaning confidentially farther over the fence.
13"Ask me and see," said Artie.
15Carney reached in his trousers pocket and drew out a ten-dollar bill. He smoothed it thoughtfully on the fence-top. Artie cast longing eyes at it.
17"I might leave this here," he said, "if I thought ye'd get that flute outer hock and begin to tootle it again—tootle it every time that infernal racket starts up next door, and keep a-tootlin' it every blessed time she plays till they get onto themselves and either stop that fiddlin' or move out of the neighborhood."
19Young Concannon laid aside his pruning shears and advanced towards the fence.
21"I do miss that flute somethin' fierce," he grinned.
23He was close to the fence now. One tentative hand was sliding along the top towards the crisp bill. Carney, however, kept his own big paw over it.
25"Every blessed time she tunes up, you do, remember that!" he stipulated.
27"You're on," said Artie.
29Whereupon Carney took his hand from the bill and went back across the street, grinning delightedly to himself; and, such is the power of mind over things material, when he went upstairs and crawled into bed he dropped at once into a doze, although the "Jewel Song" was setting the air a-quiver.
31At ten-thirty, however, he came up straight in bed. Some horrid, shivery, nerve-scraping racket was making his scalp creep. Not yet fully awake, he was unable for a moment to account for the squeaking crescendos and wailing minuendos of sound which fairly rent the air. Then he recognized Artie Concannon's prowess with the flute and chuckled gleefully.
33At that moment the door of the room was pushed open softly. Mrs. Carney, her eyes blazing, thrust her head into the room.
35"Now if this aint the limit for yez," she complained. "She's went and got Artie Concannon goin' on his flute."
37Carney grinned knowingly at her from the bed and wagged his head.
39"She has not got Artie Concannon goin', woman," he announced oracularly. "I got Artie Concannon goin' myself; and what's more, he's goin' to keep goin' till he drives 'em outer the neighborhood. In the meanwhile, Aggie," he went on, clapping his hands over his ears as a particularly wild spasm from the flute burst upon them, "there'll be no stayin' here. We'll go over to me sister Nora's place and board till this uproar is finished. I take it a week at the most'll drive them McNamaras out."
41"Aw, the head ye have on yer, Con, dear," said Mrs. Carney proudly.
43"Leave such things to me," said he, with a certain swelling out of his chest.
45It was just eleven o'clock when the Carneys locked the house and went out to the corner to take a car to Carney's sister's place in a suburb on the other side of the city.
47At eleven-five, Artie Concannon, just finishing a discordant run down the keys of the flute, paused for much-needed breath.
49"Say," called a quiet voice from a window next door, "is it dead this time?"
51Artie, still holding the flute in his hands, stepped across the room. Looking out of a window next door was Lily McNamara. Artie had had only fleeting glances of her before. He hadn't realized her lips were so red nor that her hair waved in that adorable fashion.
53"Is it dead?" she asked with mock anxiety.
55"Is what dead?" said Artie.
57"That cat you've been trying to kill all the morning. Why don't you shoot it or chloroform it, and not—oh, excuse
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