Adventure Magazine Cover, February 3, 1921 — page 134: what you’re looking at

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

128 Dippy McGuire had his back to the driver’s seat. He was shaking his shoulders and enticing the Igorots into a new jazz syncopation. Watty shook him once in despair, then seized upon Morel. “Get out of here! Iesay, Morel, down the bridge-road. Yes, it’s all right, the dashed farm is yours, but you get out of these grounds, quick!”’ “Why, Mr. Wright—Watty——’”’ “On your way! Slive, you beat it to my car. Get the blankets for Bill. I didn’t think he’d make a getaway without any clothes. Morel oy lead horses’ flanks. They sprang ! to a canter, and the band-wagon went on with a jerk that threw jarring notes of blasphemy back to the abode of sound sleep and beautiful thoughts. “Quick!” implored young Mr. Watts- Wright. “It’s all right, Morel; this nut’s a good nuf€, but I’m Watty!” “Oh, yeh!” put in Mr. Fraley placidly. “T’m all right, so’s Hooley. It can be done.” And he stood up in the cavorting chariot, took off Mr. Watts-Wright’s straw hat and beckoned triumphantly to the tail-end of the procession, which was wending slowly on among the trees. But the band-wagon went rumbling out across the bridge, and Slive Carter howled to Morel to stop just where a _touring-car was hidden in the shrubbery. ~ “Say!” yelled Mr. Morel. ‘“‘What’s the matter with this bloke I thought was you? MOREL hurled his long whip to the Adventure Minute he saw my blamed ostriches down at the depot he insisted on paradin’ ’em up here, just had to show ’em to Freihut, and_ he kept singin’’to ’imself, ‘It can be done— it can be done!’ ” Young Mr. Watts-Wright was mopping his brow, while he watched Slive Carter and Petey load big Bill McGuire into the motor-car. “How you feelin’, Bill?” “Fine as pie. Neve’ felt better. needed was alittle punc ee “Pep, punch and precision,” said Mr. Fraley, standing up in the band-wagon be- side Mr. Octavus Morel. ‘Oh, yeh, it can be done. I c’d walk them chickens a mile, an’ prove it- Sound sleep an’ beautiful thoughts an’ a chapter 0’ ‘Worry’ a day an’ a little shot o’ Hen Hastener. Say, Mr. Wright, what’d I tell yeh? T.ook back at them three birds, leggin’ it thirty-six inches to a stride, and tell me if ham-chickens ain’t a possibility?” “They amy’ retorted Mr. Watts-Wright. He was reaching up to stuff a handful of bills into Mr. Morel’s clutches. “Oh, boy—sing it on high! Freihut won’t have a payin’ patient in his joint when their people hear about this! And, Morel, you better make it up with Meta about that three-legged calf business, and when you get the old show reorganized, take this harmless gink along to nurse your ostriches. Bill and us are beatin’ it to the State line.”’ “It can be done,”’ murmured Mr. Fraley pleasedly. ‘“‘T’ll tell the world so!” All I THE OLD PROSPECTOR BY E. E. HARRIMAN Ee and leathery, grizzled and gray, Tough as a walrus strand; Plodding along his weary way Over the desert sand. Grimed with the flux of an endless trail, Calloused of hand and heel; Ribbed by the beat of ill fortune’s flail, Lasting as hammered steel. = Silent and grim as the rocks he knows, Death swinging low at-his thigh; Hope in his heart still undying glows, Fortune’s still fluttering nigh. COnmmicloool< (C@