Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 164: what you’re looking at

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

158 only served to accentuate an over-sized, bobbing Adam’s apple. And the bell- shaped legs of his trousers flopped audibly about bony knock-knees. But in his eyes there was hidden the true Tackline. It almost seemed as if Nature, when she had completed this work of cre- ation, stood off and looked it over. Then, deeply penitent, she had tried to square herself with Tackline and with the world by blessing him with this “he man” spirit that gleamed from his eyes. Without this spirit it would have been impossible for a little five-footer like Tack- line to fight and swear his way from quarter- master third-class to first-class—and back again. His shipmates liked to tell how he would wade into a brawling forecastle and deal out sleeping-powders with both fists. As Timmy Rafferty said, one morning, through swollen lips— “I never seen one man swing so many fists in my life before.” On the ship he would try to outfight and would invariably outtalk the best man on board. But ashore, as soon as he looked into the mocking eyes of Margarita, Tack- line was helpless. She overwhelmed him when he was with her. She haunted him when he was not. All day, about deck, he need only close his eyes to see again her queer little skeptical smile. AND it was this pastime of seeing skeptical smiles that caused him = to grow so strangely absent-minded and silent this particular afternoon. He was sitting on the edge of his bunk, plan- ning to get into liberty blues for the eve- ning’s trip ashore. But instead, he just sat and dreamed, staring straight before him. Finally, after a long, forlorn sigh, he mum- bled audibly—“‘Well, guess tain’t no use.” “Hittin? the beach tonight, Brady?” shouted Dougherty from the forward com- partment. From instinct Tackline thrust his grime- ingrained feet ceilingward, to protect his face from flying shoes. “Oh—why—yes. Sure—sure ’nough, the Lord Mayor’s waitin’ five o’clock tea till he sees me shinin’ face at his door, to pay my official call.” “Come on, don’t try to lay down no smoke screen. I know what your official course and port’ll be as soon as them barnacle-collectors of yours hit dry land. Adventure Full speed of a gharry up to the Garden.” ‘“‘Won’t need to take no starsight on that cruise neither,’ added another. “All you need to steer by is that light in Margarita’s eyes that you sit here moanin’ about all th time we’re at sea.” i “Why don’t you lay off’n that spig dame, like I told you to ?” asked Jerry seriously. © “Tf I didn’t stick around, she’d spend all her time making a fool out of you, Jerry. Do you remember the evenin’ she kept callin’ you loco and you thought that was Spanish for ‘beautiful?” “Aw, pipe down, you quartermaster— third class,” came Jerry’s time-hallowed retort. It was very old, but Jerry handled it like a new trick in repartee. Their remarks were interrupted by the “soupy, soupy ’’ call on the bugle, summoning them to supper. Tackline hurried to the table, gulped down his chow excitedly, and shoved off. Reaching St. George’s Lane, near the water-front, he jumped into a passing eae) and told the driver to break all speed ecords to the top of the Rock. Between the yelpings of the driver and the creakings of the gharry Tackline had little time for revery on the trip. As the road grew steeper the pace grew slower. Finally in impatience Tackline jumped out. “T’m goin’ to walk, old sleepin’ sickness. If I had more time I’d ride with you. But if you don’t come alongside before I reach the garden I won’t wait to pay you, so you’d better crack on a few more knots.” At this the driver himself jumped down and, hauling on the reins, frantically dragged horse and gharry after him. ‘“Here’s your pay, old gin-mill,” Tack- line announced to the puffing driver as they reached the Garden hedge. ‘‘And get that old bag-of-bones you’ve got hitched to your gharry some oats when you get back to town, or he’ll never finish another trip up the Rock alive.”’ “Ves, indeed, sir. I will that, sir,” the cabby promised earnestly, glancing at the ten-shilling note in his hand. “These bloomin’ Yanks is sure top-hole when it comes to pay,” he mused, as he turned his horse’s head back toward town. But now that he was so near his loved one Tackline found his self-assurance weak- ening. In fact, his feet dragged more and more as he neared the gate to the Garden COmiclbook C©