Adventure Magazine Cover — page 138: what you’re looking at

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

132 Adventure Stout Johnnie was a bucko, Oh, stout Johnnie was a whale, Stout Johnnie was a devil When it came to “Carry sail’’; And the skipper of his packet Was a randy dandy lad Who grinned at all the racket And the fine chief mate he had, His chief mate, Johnnie Martin. They drove her down by Tuskar, And they kept her driving on, She reeled beneath her skysails, And she knew the hand of John; Of Johnnie of the orphanage, The lad of nameless birth,— A lonely little bastard And the salt of all the earth Was Johnnie, Johnnie Martin. They ripped her down through Biscay, And they ripped her farther yet, And they ripped her through the trade winds With her thirty big sail set; She tossed the sea all over her Till she was shining wet, And her Johnnie, Johnnie Martin. She made a record passage Till she came to grim Le Maire, Where the ice froze to her rigging And the sea-fowl paused to stare; Her three topgallants ribboned, Her topmasts tore away— Ah, ’twas hell indeed for packets About Le Maire that day— And he laughed, did Johnnie Martin. Her skipper, he was crab meat, _ And the half her hands were dead; Le Maire’s dark skies were lowered to Her broken masts o’erhead: Her cook was staring crazy, And her sailmaker mad: But she bore a bucko laddie, Ah, a bucko, bucko lad, Named Johnnie, Johnnie Martin. He rigged her up, all jury, And about the Cape she came, Like a dainty limping lady Who had walked the ways of shame: But Johnnie Martin loved her, Oh, he loved her just the same, Did Johnnie, Johnnie Martin. COMmMiCLbMooks.Gom