Adventure Magazine Cover — page 127: what you’re looking at

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

The Weak Spot “What might you want to see me about, Chick?” he asked. ‘Trimble sent me over,” answered Ward. “And Trimble is Tommy Lynn’s manager. The plot thickens. Trimble knows I’ve retired, doesn’t he?” “Certainly, but he figures there’s always a chance that a man will come back if “Not me, Chick,” interrupted McCrady. “’m out of the fight game for keeps. It’s a promise to the wife when we got married and she wouldn’t stand for me fighting again. But if it’s only a benefit for one of the boys possibly-———”’ He stopped and looked at Ward for fur- ther information. “Tt’s not a benefit, Kid,” said Ward. “‘We want you for a principal in an elimina- tion. The winner takes on Nixon. - We'll make it worth your while, Kid.” “Vm out of the game,” repeated Mc- Crady, but the wistful note in his voice was not lost upon Ward. “But let’s hear what you’ve got to say, Chick. I like to talk fight, anyway.” “Tt’s like this,’ Ward said. ‘Ike wired Dunn, Nixon’s manager, asking for a match for Lynn. Dunn wires back Lynn’ll have to beat you before he’ll consider our challenge. You see where that puts Lynn; if you won’t meet him he ain’t got the ghost of a show to get on with Nixon.’ A cold glint flashed into Kid McCrady’s eyes. “Chick, do you fellows figure that I’d lay down to Lynn so he could get his match with Nixon?” he asked. “No, no, Kid,” Ward hastened to say. “Don’t get me wrong. You know me well enough to know that I don’t play that kind of game. If you give Lynn a match he takes his chances of beating you. It’s a straight deal. Tommy thinks he can beat you, Kid.” “And what if I beat him?” Ward made an expressive gesture with his shoulders and said nothing. McCrady fixed his gaze upon a slowly drifting cloud in the sky. Ward had touched his tenderest spot. Banned though he was by wifely edict from active partici- pation in the affairs of the ring, Kid Mc- Crady had never for a moment lost interest in the fight game. He followed its course through the newspapers—poor enough sop— and was as much interested as at any time during his active career. I2!I Yet he was constantly obsessed with a heartfelt longing for the ring—for the old life of padded fists, of canvas covered floor pungent with the odor of resin, the swirl of tobacco smoke, the glare of the lights, the faces of the fight-mad fans, the frenzied yelling and hooting, the smell of hot sweat in the nostrils, the antics of the nimble referee, the thud of hard fists against hard body, the agile ducking and dodging, the feinting and clinching. That vision haunted him incessantly. It was indeed a seductive lure and often enough Kid McCrady was forced to fight the good fight in order to remain true to mis promise to his wife. And now with Chick Ward’s generous offer the vision came before McCrady’s mental eyes more vividly than ever before. Ward was watching the little fighter’s face narrowly. He saw that hunger and yearning there, and he also saw the inde- cision. The big moment had arrived and he decided to land his fish with a single cast. “Kid, the minute you put your John Henry to a contract to meet Lynn we'll post a guarantee of five thousand dollars,” he said. ‘Furthermore, the winner takes eighty per cent. of the net gate. That means ten thousand dollars or more. That’s a whopping lot of money, Kid.”’ McCrady gulped. Ten thousand dol- lars was indeed a whopping lot of money to a man who was up to his neck in debt. - And he had the opportunity to earn that amount of money in not more than half an hour’s actual work. To boot, he could earn it at work he loved better than any other form of work he knew about. It was beyond him to calculate in his mind how many dreary years he would have to work at the panel factory before he could earn and save ten thousand dollars. He gulped again. He visualized that sum of money in his possession, his debts paid, a little luxury here and there and Kitty and himself really well-started in life. “What are the conditions, Chick?” he asked in a thick voice. “Six rounds at-one-thirty-five or less at the North Side Plant, fight thirty days after contract.’ It was an odd glance that the little fighter gave his tempter. “Why the rush?” he asked. COMMICLOOOKS