Adventure Magazine Cover — page 42: what you’re looking at

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

T WAS a night of thick and chilling fog, and the San Fran- cisco ferry-boats were roaring at one another to look sharp and keep out of the way as they felt for their slips with the luminous fingers of their searchlights. Now and then a_.deep- throated tramp steamer howled a warning, and the fog-horn of Goat Island bellowed with tiresome regularity. Over all these sounds, there came to the Battleship Lunch of Sinker Joe on the water-front, the irritable velpings of taxicab and automobile horns disputing the road as they scuttled up and down the Embar- Author of ‘White Man's M agic,” “‘Fool’s Luck,” etc. cadero like great luminous-eyed beetles: lost in the murk. Pete, the colored cook, was frying some fish for himself. The supper trade was over for the evening, and the place was deserted. Sinker Joe, the Greek owner, was in the back room playing cards with a crony. The glowing cooking-range, in sight of the lunch-counter, gave off a com- fortable heat. The room was filled with a smoky haze which was spiced with the odors of the fried fish, steak and onions and vegetable stews of the preceding busy hour. And the coffee-heater dispensed the aroma of Bra- zilian coffee. Pete was a frail little man. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing slender forearms. Doubled about his mid- dle twice was a white but spotted apron, of such ample proportions that it betrayed the “The Cook,”’ copyright, 1922, by Frederick Moore. 34 fact that it was not made for cooks who are of thin bodies. About his head he wore a white napkin, the corners of the cloth being tucked in about his ears with skilful fingers. It had a twist to it that suggested a turban. Pete moved about the range with mar- velous grace. There was a swiftness and a surety about his hands that was amazing. He was as quick as a cat, even when there was no need for haste. But tonight he was inclined to hug the range, for the chill of the fog penetrated the Battleship Lunch, and Pete felt shivery. He was a quiet man, given to holding his peace and doing his work without argument, even when he was jeered by drunken roustabouts of the docks who presumed to give themselves lordly airs with Pete if they had the few cents needed to buy a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He had just flipped his fish into a plate and was about to eat his supper, when the door opened and two menycame in. The first was a short, heavy-set man who wore a double-breasted reefing jacket of dark blue, an old visored cap with a brass button on each side, and a white cotton shirt with a soft collar carelessly held in place by a red tie. His tanned face was raw-boned and seamed with the deep wrinkles of ill-humor. But his neck was fat and bulging, and the skin of it was covered with tiny red veins. He was Captain Gedge, known to everybody on the water-front as a blustering skipper of sailing-vessels. With Gedge was a tall and lanky man GO 1NOO S C@