Adventure Magazine Cover — page 147: what you’re looking at

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

Z TAN Leg Lita ice = se AN Mi cyeccHenpnea a, “Oh, I can’t get ’em up, Oh, I can’t get ’em up, Oh, I can’t get ’em up in the morning, Oh, I can’t get ’em up, Oh, I can’t get ’em up, No I can’t get ’em up at all——” TTLE Tommy Rice was “jam- I ch ming the wind” at Pateros in his daily endeavor to blow pup-tents. sleeping Company E out of its “The corporal’s worse than the private; The sergeant’s worse than the corporal; The lieutenant’s worse than the sergeant; And the C-A-P-T-A-I-N-’S— (Tommy always held her a moment here) ‘worse than ’em all!” Tommy switched to ‘‘Assembly,” the echoes of his infantry bugle rising shriller and shriller on the morning air. Sergeant Luttge, the “top,” came slowly from the orderly tent, timing himself to arrive at the company street exactly as the last note died in the distant hills. His bellowing ‘Fall In!”’ carried across the river to Pasig where Colonel Wooley’s Second Washingtons al- ready were shouting ‘‘here’”’ as the rolls were called. Lieutenant Miles, his new bars glittering on his shoulders, came snappily to “‘atten- tion,” facing the company just in time to answer Luttge’s salute as he reported— ‘One private absent, sir.” “Who is it, sergeant?” “Morey, Second, sir.” pany, sergeant,’’ was just audible above Tommy’s bugle which in a happier note sounded: *‘Soupy, soupy, soupy, Without a single bean, Porky, porky, porky, Without a streak of lean, Coffee, coffee, coffee, Weakest ever seen.” “Where was Pete Morey?” was the ques- tion that added zest to breakfast that morn- ing. It was discussed by rank and file. Morey was gone and so was the little banca the brothers had purchased from an old fisherman a few weeks before, but the Pasig, flowing silently by, bore no trail and told no stories. ‘Has he gone up the lake again, Ray?” The cook waved his hand in invitation to Morey, First, to pass his mess-tin for ‘‘sec- onds” and let an extra spoonful of black native molasses drip on the flapjacks in hopes that the brother would rise to the treacly bait. Ray waited until the last drop had trickled from the spoon. “Don’t know, cookee, old top; maybe he’s visiting the Washingtons again.” Every one in hearing knew the story of the twins’ escapade across the river a week before, and the roar which followed was audible two blocks away, at the padre’s house, where “Old Spud” Morphy, Brevet Major, and Captain of Company E, was discussing the absent offender with Lieu- tenant Miles. “Listen to the divils shoutin’, Mr. Miles. The lieutenant’s “Dismiss the com- An’ have ye no disciplin’ in the company at 141 CONNICOOOKS (C@