Adventure Magazine Cover — page 145: what you’re looking at

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

Micky’s Marquis He smiled, bowed, apologized, slipped away from a kick or punch like an eel ina bucket of oil, never once hitting back, losing his smile, or saying one of those fear- fully weird French sentences that all hands detested through sheer inability to under- stand them. Big Bill decided Micky might recover sooner than expected. He sought out the Marquis at the change of the afternoon watch. “Little frog, I’m goin’ to knock yer laugh into a grin, an’ then hammer the grin into a crimson loud yowl fer mercy,” he said, and promptly landed a broad-handed slap on the Marquis’s smiling face. On his visits to Micky in the half-deck, the Marquis had faithfully hed concerning matters in the forecastle, for he saw that the damaged Irishman was anxious, and anxiety was bad for his crushed shoulder and bruised chest. “Everysing ees fine, Micky,” the Mar- quis insisted. “Ze men say Skimps an’ me are fr’en’s of you, and zey geeve us ze gran’ kindness. “Then that’s foine, sure,” Micky had smiled cheerfully. ‘‘Oi wis scared they’d hop onto th’ lad, or start in raggin’ yez again soon’s Oi wis scuppered. Kape yer- self goin’ aisy, thin Marquis dear. Don’t let thim git yer goat now. Sure, Oi'll be wid yez again in a day or two, an’ it’s yer jooty to see as Big Bill don’t pick on that youngvillain Skimps afore Oi kin look after him again. “Kape smilin’, don’t kick back, onless ye have to in self-defence, and, av ye can, pershuade Skimps he’s safer wid his tongue betune his teeth ’til Oi git back wid yez.”’ ALL these sage counsels were in the Marquis’s mind now, when his cheeks stung and flamed under the vicious slap of Big Bill. Just for an instant that cunning right leg of the foot-fighter quivered and flexed, but Micky’s plea pre- vailed, the Marquis bowed, and ran up-on deck without reprisal. As will ‘happen at times, the men whose own brutal proclivities were only held in leash by fear of Big Bull and respect for Micky now found a vent in a wholesale baiting of the Marquis. It was a chance too good to miss, for by mobbing the runa- way Frenchman, whose feet they no longer feared, they would earn the approval of »ear!”’ squealed Skimps. 139 Chivers—and Micky could not stop them. On deck they clambered with gleeful oaths. It was Sunday, and except for necessary work and helm tricks the men were holding holiday. The Marquis had taken up a perch on the forecastle rail, calming his smoldering anger with a cigaret without a thought that he would be mo- lested. He flattered himself, in fact, upon having respected Micky’s wishes. ‘Some day eet shall be zat I keeck ze stofiin’ of Beeg Beel from hees estomach out!’ he blissfully resolved. Then the sound of the men approaching startled him. Hands seized him from behind, hauled him off the rail to the deck, and fists and feet pounded him without mercy. The blows and kicks hurt, as they were meant to do; and the Marquis’s good reso- lutions vanished when his cigaret was jammed into his mouth, and a heavy boot landed on his ear. With a shrill cry of pain and fury he sprang clear of the roaring mob, poised himself for a second, then shot out his feet with the speed and accuracy of piston strokes, and two of his assailants crashed to the deck insensible at the moment when the steward led Micky Don- lin out on deck for a little exercise in the fresh air. Big Bill emerged from the scuttle at the same moment, dragging Skimps by the ear; but the Marquis saw nothing of that at the time. .He heard Micky’s despairing shout, weak as it was from suffering, and shame came upon him in a hot wave. “Howly Moses! There goes his fut again! Th’ little mon’ll niver larn!” And well the Marquis knew that he had displeased his one friend—the man who had saved him getting crippled if not actually killed. To avoid further shame he ran like a hare to the fore-rigging, hoping to escape by flight as-shameful. But Skimps entered into the game, anguished howls wrung from him by the cruel ear- twisting of Chivers who was thoroughly enjoying himself in full sight of the helpless Micky. It was the boy’s shrill cry for mercy that wrought still another change of front in the Frenchman. “Leggo! Ye’re tearin’ orf me bleedin’ “Ow! Micky! ‘“Dhrop th’ lad, Chivers, or Oill take a chance wid yez crippled as Oi am!”’ yelled Micky, shambling-forward, shaking off the COMMICOOOKS (F@