Adventure Magazine Cover — page 37: what you’re looking at

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

Red Mist jurisdiction but whose souls flame with the unquenchable fires of freedom, who worship Allah, recognize no law save the law of the Koran, pay tribute to no man save Mo- hammed, the great and only Prophet. The street he knew, but of Mohammed ben Ahmed he had never heard. “The Street of the Little House,”’ echoed Miss Pellam. ‘It sounds like a story-book. Let’s leave it till the last.” As they stepped into the shadowed as- cents of the Moorish Quarter the loud beating of a tom-tom, the harsh unmusical notes of an African hautboy, pierced the silence. Holbrooke felt a slight, then a deepening pressure on his arm. It was the girl’s hand. He laughed happily. Never had the call of the Old Town sounded so sweet in his ears. IV yi | AT THE north end of the Street HE of the Little House stood the Little House itself. It was three stories hich, topped with a walled terrace which connected with the terraces of the neigh- boring houses by a short flight of steps. Unlike the surrounding houses, it had no garden. Its grilled windows faced the street on two sides. They were long and narrow and heavily shuttered. The en- trance door was of massive tifiver studded with brass-headed nails. The bell was indi- cated by a little hand of Fatma with delicate fingers pointing downward. On either side of the door were lamps encased in latticed wooden brackets. ‘They flickered palely. Lounging beside the door was a boy in pale amber robes. He wore blue sandals. His socks, likewise of that celestial tint, reached his knees. Behind his ears hung sprigs of rose geraniums. His turban shone like a halo around the oval, girlish face, the languorous eyes, the narrow, sharply pen- cilled brows. Between the fingers of his left hand he held, loosely, a tiny henna- stained bamboo flute. He stood, very quiet, staring down the street. He was watching for some one. For two hours he had stood thus in seeming idleness, twirling the little flute between his slender fingers, but never putting it to his lips. His name was Hosayn. He was the serving-boy of the owner of the little house, Mohammed ben Ahmed. He was waiting for expected guests. 793 Two shadows lay across the patch of moonlight barring the intersection of the Street of the Little House and the cross street. A man and a woman passed around the house and came toward Hosayn. ‘“‘We are looking for the house of Mo- hammed ben Ahmed,” said Holbrooke in French. “Sidi, pointing. “We wish to enter. You are his boy?” ‘“‘And thy servant, Sidi,” said Hosayn. “Do you play?” asked Miss Pellam, pointing to the flute. Hosayn smiled brightly, lifted the flute to his mouth and fastened his lips to it. A burst of little notes, like the fluttering cries of young birds, escaped from the in- strument. Then, as though in echo, they were repeated softly. ‘That is the real call of the Old Town,” whispered the girl. The boy released the flute from his lips, bowed, turned toward the house and put his fingers on the bell. There was a faint tinkling sound beyond the brass-studded door. A moment later it opened. Another boy stood in a rosy dimness. His dress was the counterpart of Hosayn’s, even to the geranium sprigs behind his well-shaped ears. He-was smiling brightly, showing his even little teeth, and bowing with the grace of a young court page. ‘Will madame and monsieur enter?” he asked. Holbrooke handed the clerk’s card to the boy. ‘Give this to your master. wait here.” ‘‘Madame will find a chair within. It will be more comfortable waiting there.” Hosayn spoke softly, his languorous eyes on Miss Pellam. They entered. The door swung silently into place. Both boys disappeared. MHol- brooke and the girl were alone with the sound of a plashing fountain from the court at the end of the hallway and the consciousness of each other’s presence. They did not speak—did not even look at each other. They were waiting for something to happen—something unusual. “What do you think it will be?” Hol- brooke asked the question as though they had been discussing it. He looked at her. She sat very still on the divan to which it is here,’ answered the boy, We shall COmiclbook ©