Adventure Magazine Cover, April 1916 — page 144: what you’re looking at

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

142 pipes for our new waterworks were to be laid. We saw Fullick snatch his old stock- ing-cap from his head and whip it fiercely again and again into the eyes of his two led horses. With his open left-hand he reached over and cuffed his mount heavily on the left side of its face. Fullick’s mount swerved against the cen- ter animal, which in turn reared and plunged sideways against the off horse. This brute, to avoid the stinging blows of the stocking- cap, lurched to the right, slipped and plunged into the excavation. The rest was just a mighty scramble of great bodies and striking hoofs. We disentangled the struggling animals and got them to their feet. Under them all, at the bottom of the ditch, lay what was left of old Fullick. His battered and torn body still held life as a stretcher bore him swiftly to No. 5 Base Hospital across the fields. That evening the corporal handed me a letter addressed in a scrawling hand to Fullick. I took it over to the hospital. ‘You can’t see him, he’s dying,” the nurse in charge of Fullick’s ward-tent told me. Briefly I told her about the Christmas box and showed her the envelope I had for Fullick. Her face softened. “T think it will be all right to read it to him,” she said, leading me into the marquee. On a cot in a corner under a white carbide lamp lay Fullick. His head was swathed in a huge bandage that came well down over his eyes. His knotted, grimy hands clutched at the white coverlet with black, vcken finger-nails. I spoke to him softly. a husky whisper. “It’s—me little—ole—brown—son.” “T’ve got your letter—from the kiddy,” Isaid. ‘Shall I read it?” He lifted a hand a little way from the bed and opened and shut his fingers. I put the envelope in them. For a few moments he lay silently holding the letter. A slight tinge of color centered in his unshaven cheeks. ‘“‘Read—it,” he whispered. I opened the letter. ‘“‘Wot’s wrong, matey?” came the whis- per. ‘“‘Carn’t yer make out the kiddy’s writin’?”’ “It’s all right,’ I answered hastily. “Just a little scrawly—hard to read. Listen: His lips parted in Adventure My Dear SOLpIER: Of course I’m glad you got the parcel and not somebody else. You must not be lonely any more. Write to me often. I will answer every time. I wish you could see my puppy. He isa pug. Evenif you don’t fight in the trenches you are a soldier and are doing your bit. I believe you are just as brave as any soldier. Keep up your spirits. Write soon. Your loving little friend, ELSIE. A profound peace seemed to settle upon that torn old figure on the cot. He was silent a long time, while I sat staring at that letter. Then again came that hoarse whisper. ‘There was more strength to it; a different tone, almost a rough sweetness. ‘‘Arnswer it—matey—arfter—arfter I’m done. Tell ’er ow it ’appened. Tell ’er as 7ow I seen them kiddies—in the road—an’ thought of ’er—an’ done—the best I could.” I promised. One hand fluttered on the coverlet. “‘Le’ me—le’ me ’old the letter, matey.” The whisper was very faint, now I looked at the letter again and beckoned to the nurse, who was standing by with the look of calm, kind motherhood behind her thick glasses. I whispered to her. “Absolutely certain. Internal hemor- rhage. Before morning,’ she whispered back. I held the letter so she could read it over my shoulder. It was in the writing of an illiterate woman. The scrawl on the en- velope had deceived me. The real letter was short and cruelly to the point. It read: I got your letter about enlisting. I don’t want nothing to do with you or your money. I am mar- ried to a good man now. He doesn’t even know my first husband was a drunken thief and a jailbird. Leave me alone. The nurse looked at me through her tears. “The poor old thing,” she whispered. ‘‘And he dying like a real hero.” Silently I folded the letter, put it in its envelope and placed it in the limp fingers on the coverlet. They closed upon it, ever so slightly. The livid lips twisted into a sort of smile. “Good night, Fullick,”’ I said. The lips barely moved and I bent over to hear the reply. “*Night, me—good—ole matey,” it came faintly. I went out into the night. raining again. It had begun CoOMmicboooks (CO