Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 140: what you’re looking at

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

134 me in Tampico, Blackson. I wasn’t worth gettin’ carved up for, that way. Look at all the trouble I’m causin’ you now!”’ He laughed harshly, directing a keen look into the fireman’s eyes. The coal-heaver was silent. He was thinking of the look in the chief’s eyes when he had roared—— “T want this ‘New York Roddy” ”’ Let him come and get him then, was the fireman’s thought. All that fe wanted to do at that moment was to get away from him. Here, standing close beside him, was the notorious gunman that the chief wanted —the old shipmate that he had saved from death in Mexico twenty years before. Here he was, with a dozen drinks of whisky in his insides, his right hand still in his overcoat pocket and that menacing little hill of cloth still pointing upward toward the fireman’s left ribs. New York Roddy had not for one second relaxed his guard. “Jimmy Legs then, fireman now,eh? I don’t believe you’re a fireman, Blackson! You're after me, all right, but you’ll never take me!” suddenly shouted the gunman with great vehemence, his suspicions at last crystallizing into conviction. ‘‘You took me away from the Mexicans, Blackson, but you'll never take me out of here!” Through the alcoholic haze that obscured his brain the coal-heaver was wondering vaguely why Roddy didn’t shoot and end the suspense. Life with him was only a gamble, anyway. That was the way of his profession. Many a time in the past he had trifled with sudden death, even as he was standing beside it now. That he, of all men, should have been chosen to appre- hend his old shipmate—this jolly, reckless, good-hearted New York Roddy that or- ganized society wanted! Bah! Life was nothing but a queer muddle, anyway! There is a certain stage in the drinking of alcohol when the addict’s being becomes taut and sensitized like the strings of a harp, registering the slightest promptings of emotion. At such times softness takes the drinker completely in its embrace. Staid and dignified natures often break down and weep when in this predicament or otherwise surrender the key to the strong-box of their feelings; while in men of action this period is usually fruitful of some impulsive and gener- ous act. Harshness fades temporarily out of sinners, leaving them soft and defenseless against the accusing stings of outraged conscience. Adventure So they stood—the gunman and the fireman—both drunk, but the gunman standing his liquor the better of the two. The voice of the gunman seemed to be reaching the firemen’s consciousness from afar. “For the good o’ the service,’’ New York Roddy was smilingly repeating. A soft light crept into his eyes and a touch of something that was almost like womanly sweetness played about his lips. “T might have turned into a decent guy some day after I’d settled down,” he mused in a half-whispered tone from which all harshness had fled, ‘“‘but you buttin’ in like this don’t give a guy a chance.” Swift resolve leaped into the gunman’s eyes. From the pocket of the gray over- coat came suddenly into view the formid- able steel outlines of a .45 Colt. The re- volver’s grim eye was pointing directly at the fireman. The latter’s senses were too much dulled with alcohol to experience fear. He was merely wondering what the sudden change would feel like. He caught a fleet- ing glimpse of the proprietor and the bar- tender ducking beneath the bar. Then a natural impulse toward self-preservation prompted him to reach frantically with his right hand toward his hip pocket. ‘‘Keep your hands on that bar!” shouted New York Roddy in a firm clear voice. The loud voice of his big weapon roared through the confined stillness. wig 1 HE detective blinked his eyes and “a found he could open them wide. ! The gun had fallen from Rodman’s hand and was lying on the floor. The gun- ‘man was gripping the bar and swaying curi- ously back and forth. Blood trickled from a hole in the side of his head. The detec- tive savagely broke away from the alcoholic impotence that bound him. “Rodman! Old shipmate!”’ he cried, throwing his arms about the swaying figure. “Taps—lights out—for the good o’ the service,” gasped New York Roddy with a feeble smile. The detective lowered the limp form gently to the floor, Rodman’s glazing eyes flickered. His lower jaw trembled in a queer way. His final whisper was very faint. The detective’s straining ears could just catch it—— “Told you—ev’rybody likes—a _ gun- man——” COMmiclbook CO