Adventure Magazine Cover — page 141: what you’re looking at

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

The Mask stubborn irritation in him. It was as if he had taunted him with cowardice, and al- though every reasoning faculty in him cried out against it his overpowering impulse was to prove the man a liar. “What’s your name?” he asked, more to cover his irritation than anything else. ‘““Morgan’s the one I’m using.”’ Reason assumed control. It was sheer insanity to play with this sort of thing. In his community a man didn’t just use any name that came to hand. One surname sufficed a man all his life. This business wouldn’t do. He decided to withdraw, firmly but as gracefully as possible. “If you can use a loan—” he began hesitantly, but the other cut him short. “Don’t bother,’”’ he told him ironically. “Just trot along, and thanks for your trouble.” Again the devil of stubbornness gripped Barret. He felt an overwhelming desire to wipe the mockery out of that sneering face. “What do you want me to do?” he snapped. “Huh? Going to stick after all?” There was just the hint of surprize in the tone necessary to make Barret throw cau- tion to the winds. “Certainly, I’m going to stick,” he said a trifle stiffly. ‘I don’t start something and not see it through.” Morgan surveyed him casually, sardon- ically, from his neatly polished round-toed shoes—Barret suffered from corns—to the respectable and highly conservative derby on his head. Barret’s clean-shaven, pink and white face flushed with embarrassed irritation. He became uncomfortably con- scious of the rotundity under his well- fitting waistcoat, of the well-fed softness of his general appearance, in contrast with the lean hardness of the man whose narrow eyes took his measure with an indefinable, amused contempt. “Well?” he snapped. “Better think again, mister,’”’ advised Morgan with an impudent grin. “You might get yourself in Dutch, trying to sit in this game. Plenty of time to run along still.” “Look here,” Barrett told him, his pa- tience giving way beneath the man’s sar- donic scrutiny, “if you want me to do any- thing tell me what it is. If not, tell me so, and I’ll wash my hands of you.”’ The narrow eyes widened slightly in a 135 look which might have been interpreted as admiring surprize. “All right, have it your own way. I want to get to Moscow. When the train comes in let me carry your bags. [I'll try to get aboard in the push, making out like I’m working for you. They’re after me pret- ty hard, but if I can get to Moscow there’s a guy there I’ve got something on, and [’ll make him get me out of the country.” ‘What do they want you for?” ‘“‘The less you know the better. I’ve got no papers, for one thing, and no money. You'll have to pay my fare. But if any one stops me or acts suspicious you don’t know nothing about me, see. You just hired me to carry your grips.” “You mean just leave your”’ Morgan grinned. “You better had,” he told him. ‘Why, man, one week in a Soviet jail would kill you.” Again came the sardonic appraisal, and again Barret’s broad face flushed in spite of him. ‘“Say—”’ he began, but the words were cut short by a shrill, high-pitched whistle from up the track. Shawled women with innumerable bun- dles seemed to rise out of the earth, jostling with heavy-booted stolid men. Gaunt babies screamed, roused from sleep to a world of cold and hunges. Everywhere was bustle and confusion as the long- expected train clattered up to the platform. With an uncomfortable feeling that he was behaving like a fool Barret followed his companion and the bags toward the nearest carriage. It was just before he reached it that Barret saw him collide heavily with a Red soldier. There was a quick interchange of words in Russian. To Barret, whose scanty knowledge of the language prevented his being sure what it was all about, it seemed that Morgan was apologising, while the other blocked his way, becoming more and more overbearing. It was one of the petty persecutions to which travelers in Russia are subjected, and which are better not resented. Then with a sudden sinking at the pit of his stomach he heard one word that his experience with the Soviet Government had taught him to recognize instantly. ‘‘Passport.”’ Morgan dropped the bags, gave him a C© MICLOOKS (©