Adventure Magazine Cover — page 125: what you’re looking at

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

The Man-Eater “How much food yo’ get?” the old man flung back. “Yo”spend a hundred dollars for er gun, fifty dollars for er dog, and de Lord knows how much for shot an’ powder an’ j’inted fishin’-poles.. How much food you-all get?” This was a poser for the parson. There was some truth in the deacon’s insinuations, he could not gainsay that, Still he was firm in the-stand he had taken. He would not admit defeat so he patiently explained: “Br’er Mose, de cow don’ wanter be kilt but we got ter do hit if we gwine to have beefsteak. De hawg don’ wanter have his froat cut but de butcher got ter do hit if we gwine to have spare-ribs. De patteridge don’ wanter be shot but we got to shoot him if we gwine to have quail on tose. Now far as de patteridge er concarned, I hunt him-———’’ ‘’Cause you lak to see him tumble when yo’ shoot at him, parson. Every ten-cent patteridge yo’ eat cos’ you four-bits.” “‘Cas’ de mote out er yo’ own eye,” bel- lowed the parson. with fightin’ roosters? How you gwine to justificate yo’self for doin’ dat?” Uncle Mose was in his element now. “T ain’t er gwine ter try! I don’ care. Ma’s’r John don’ fight um. If he do, hit er good enough for me. Dese roosters yo’ hear er crowin’ come inter de worl’ er fightin’, an’ dey er gwine out de same way. De only trouble dey have in dis worl’, dey don’ get ter fight enough.” coops, took out a bright red cock “>” and tossed him on the running- board. The cock crowed instantly. For a moment he watched the negro’s hand, as it drew near to him, undecided whether or not to strike, then allowed himself to be smoothed and caressed but emitting a few protesting clucks as the black hand moved him back and forth across the board. HE QUICKLY went to one of the The old darky’s face registered enough of love and tenderness to make the fortune of a movie queen. “Dat’s Gander Eye,” he beamed. “We can’t match him. Mas’r John offered ter back him for five thousand dollars. at Delta Point las’ Winter. Dey all er’fraid er him.” The parson reached out and gingerly stroked the glossy neck that glistened like a ruby in the sun. “What dat got ter do , be each half-game. 115 He closed his eyes. recess Of his brain a dream was born. He saw a Zulu warrior; berserk, charge the foe. With assagai, he plunged headlong at the mass of spears. Plumes waved, black faces strained and writhing bodies moiled upon the ground. He heard a wild trium- phant call of victory, and tumbled back to earth again. Old Gander Eye had crowed. rise. coops. Each occupant had a story of his own. This was Brigham Young; a brood cock now. Old Quantrell, winner at New Or- leans, he who broke the Texas crowd. Even John Madison, the Houston million- aire and gamest sportsman of the South, had quit. Tecumseh, untried but rich in royal blood. The parson stroked the graceful necks of red and spangle, black and brown. Why, these were children—effervescent with life— brimming with vitality. The parson rather thought that he would try to borrow one of them from Mas’r John to run with his mongrel hens. He could then raise him some full-bloods of his own. _it was a simple question of “fig- gers.” The young from the mating would He could then mate a stag and a pullet, each half-game, and with- out the aid of higher mathematics he knew that two halves make a whole. Erge, he could have full-bloods of his own. They drifted back to the gate again and the Reverend Bung, once more a business- man, explained to Uncle Mose the need of funds for the church. Unconscieusly he backed against a coop. A snake-like head flashed out between the bars and something caught him by the ear. A roll of kettle- drums sounded behind him as the old out- law’s feet beat against the slats. The par- son squawked like a frightened hen and leaped out of danger. Uncle Mose was convulsed with laughter. With tears streaming down his withered cheeks he explained: “Dat’s Ole Calomel; he a man-eater. He turn on his han’ler las’ Winter in New Orleans. ’Fo’ he got to facin’, de yuther cock cut him down. He lay on his back till de yuther one clim’ on top ob him—den he shuffle an’ rattle him to deff. We thought he never gwine ter get well. Mas’r EOPMIC OOOKS In some uncharted - The parson’s sporting-blood was on the Old Mose showed him down the line of. (EO)