Adventure Magazine Cover, February 3, 1921 — page 176: what you’re looking at

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

170 in Arnie’s oilcoat and packed away snugly in the bit of a locker. He told the others— with generous embellishments—how he had nearly lost it upon a time; whereupon eyes and mouths gaped more than ever at Arnie, by reason of his thrilling rescue. Charley Grant found occasion shortly before they were picked up to venture privately: “I guess, sir, it’s no trick to tell what some men are after in this life. Money, I recall, you named it. you ll admit I was, sir. But I was right; I said—why, you ~ Adventure ought to see your face this minute!—I said you'd be the kind to put most store by the world’s opinion. How about it, sir?” “How’s that?” Arnie turned to him as if he had been rudely interrupted. “Still talking that funny talk?” He frowned. ‘To —— with the world’s opinion!” What use had he for the world’s opinion, indeed? He was grinning with unsup- pressed pleasure at what these crude men bandied about concerning him. He was not exactly happy, but he was nearer to being happy than ever he had been before. LAW WEST OF THE PECOS “Mii, LY Marry. and Elen Kyne Collings ICHAEL WINTHROP CON- NOLLY was full of wrath, prickly heat, jiggers and chile con carne. ‘The jiggers and chile had been accumulated in the same sand- blown eating-house. The prickly heat he had acquired gradually since his train had dropped below the Mason-Dixon line, but the nth degree of its torture was reached coincident with the flat, hot dulness of the ~ west Texas plains. The wrath he had had thrust upon him by an irate pair of parents and the dean of the Harvard Law School, not any of whom could forgive him for a self- donated week’s vacation at the world series. Neither could they understand a descendant of Governor Winthrop’s desiring to follow the footsteps of Christy Matthewson in prefer- ence to those of William Blackstone. He had a ticket through to Los Angeles, fifty dollars in his pocket, his last clean collar limp around his neck, and no definite plans for his future livelihood beyond a nebulous hope of signing on with one of the Coast teams. So he ran his hands through an incandes- cent thatch of brick-colored hair, scowled his brows into fierce knots of angry muscle over his sherry-brown eyes, and {thrusting his long legs out with small-boy violence, he contemplated the last pair of custom-made shoes that he expected to wear for some good few years. A door banged open, the brakeman bawled, ‘‘Next station Val Verde,” and Michael Winthrop leaned hopefully from his window to view the town whose name sounded to him like cool drops of falling water. It was, alas! anything but verdant. Out of the dun mass of saloons, dancing- halls, Mexican, chile parlors and sprawl- ing houses, one building assaulted his | CORICGLOO© S CO)