Adventure Magazine Cover — page 66: what you’re looking at

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

17 if, ‘ a 1 se ‘ "iV fi oy yy we 18 vp ra . — ~ boys,” = hei take this day off, of all days in your - jife! The marshal is all smoked up about Z Ze _ something, and he’s ordered that every man found in the district be brought before ag “him today, pass or no pass!” The prisoners arose like men who were __-wearied to the bones and shaimbled out into the road with a glance behind them to make sure that the M. P.’s were on their heels. The shepherds knew better than to lead their flock, for an obvious reason, ~ and, having sympathy for them in their trouble and wise heads on their shoulders, they did not badger them to hurry. The prisoners dragged their reluctant feet along. “When you get before the marshal, warned the guards, “‘be sure not to give him any arguments or chop words with him. He’s got some temper, the boss has, and he’s in a state of mind this morning. Have your story ready and call him sir, and shut up until you’re asked to open your trap.” “We're going before the marshal?” in- quired the Merchant. “Sure thing.” “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the Merchant, giving himself up for a lost man now. THEY entered the ancient town be- | tween two low gray towers in whose walls were slits for the use of archers in forgotten wars. The guards herded them up a narrow and dirty cobbled street and into the open square which was the Place de Ville. A large stone building, green with ivy, formed one side of the square. It was the headquarters of the provost marshal. They found themselves at the end of a great high room, bare of furniture except for a table at the farther side. Military policemen stood about, and behind the table and beside a pleasant-faced officer who was unknown to the Merchant sat the redoubtable provost marshal. He sat side- wise, for reasons best known to himself, and stared dourly at the table. His black brows lifted for an instant as the prisoners shuffled in and fell again over his red- rimmed eyes. The knuckles of one hand tapped monotonously on the wood. “It’s Lynch,” whispered the prisoners. “‘Who’s that next to him?” inquired the Merchant out of the corner of his mouth. “I know him,” said a prisoner more ek “He’s one of them spans from Cinta He went ‘ages our outfit last week. His name is Bellinger— ‘Close-Fisted’ Bellinger they used to call him. He’s a good skate though; he give our supply officer a bawling out because we > weren’t getting enough to eat.”’ “He was with the First Division during the war,” vouchsafed another. ‘With the Twenty-Eighth Infantry he was. That was my old outfit before I went to the pos- pital.” “Seems to me like the Twenty-Eighth was in Apremont when we were in Montfaucon,”’ hazarded the Merchant. “That’s right. Bellinger got that wound stripe in Lavoye where we crossed the river. He was a second looey them days and was in charge of the chow detail; he got hit by a shell about five miles back of the lines. He’s a good skate all right.” The Merchant’s brow gathered studiously as he ran over an assortment of lies which he might use for the benefit of the officers behind the table. At this moment there was an uproar and a commotion on the Place de Ville outside, and a guard backed into the room with a bared automatic in his hand. “Mad dog!” he cried. ‘‘Get back!’ While the words were issuing from his mouth, a long beast sprang through the doorway past the guard, his every tooth. shining in his gaping jaws, except those several: which had been long since kicked out. He leaped at the Merchant, was kicked away, emitted a howl of satisfaction and then threw himself prone between his master’s legs, whence he cocked his one good eye in defiance at the guard. “Get away!” ordered the guard. me get a shot at him!” “Put up your gun,” chant. ‘“He’s mine!’ “He’s mad!” “Not so mad as I’ll be if you shoot,” promised the Merchant. “Not, so dan- gerous, neither. Put up the gun.” “What’s all that noise down there?” called the marshal. “Prisoner got a dog, sir,” said the ser- geant-at-arms. The marshal craned his thick neck; his gaze settled on the Merchant and on Kamerad, grinning between his legs. At the sight ‘of them he threw himself back in his chair, folded his arms and smiled for the first time in twelve hours. “Tet growled the Mer-