Adventure Magazine Cover — page 85: what you’re looking at

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

Flatfoot knees, and a serene grin on his moon-like face. Dixie was standing, leaning against the same stanchion. “By gysh!” Snoots guffawed when he saw me. ‘Har, har, har! Breeze is got it too! Har, har, har!” “What’s the joke?” I said squatting before him. “Why, we all got har, har!” “Funny, all right,” I said, after Snoots seemed to have finished his giggle. smallpox! Har, “Yes, suh,” concurred Dixie; ‘very funny.” : “I haven’t got the pox! I only came down here to see what was the matter with you fellows!” “Neither have we!’’ Snoots ‘broke out again. “Har, har, har!” While he was thus enjoying himself I took a look around. Just imagine—forty of us packed into a twenty-by-forty com- partment. Forty! And no way out of it, up, down or aft. The two doors leading aft were dogged down and locked. The two ladders leading above and below had been taken down. The only exit was one door leading forward to the sick-bay—and out- side of this stood an armed marine. We were like so many trapped rats—only worse off. And this lunatic thought it was funny! ‘How come you got nailed?” I asked Dixie. “Why, when I came down, that doggone doctah was yellin’ his head off about theh bein’ too many sight-seein’, mfo’mation- seekin’ fools comin’ down to the sick-bay with nothin’ the matteh with them. I was afraid, did I tell him I’d only come down to see what was the matteh with Snoots, I’d get a growl. So I told him I had a Iittle belly-ache——”’ “That’s the way they roped me!” I broke in. “Har, har, har!’ Snoots was off again. ‘An’ the funny part of it is, har, har, har, I never had no belly-ache! I was only kid- din’! Har, har, har! I figgers I’ll make the sick-list an’ git a few days’ rest. Har, har, har!’’ Imagine it! The three of us locked up in a twenty-by-forty pest-house, among forty. Forty! Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle o’ rum! ‘Cheer up, fellers,” he went on. “It’s all in a cruise. We're all in the same boat. Looka Gillen over there. He looks like he’s Strategy 79 gonna be shot at sunrise. -Cheer up, Gillen!” Gillen, a big, husky, ugly master-at-arms, sat on the coffer-dam, fifteen feet from us, red murder written in every line of his scowling face. He was trying hard to wither Snoots with a _ glare—something that couldn’t be done. “Cheer up, Gillen,” “Vuh might on’y be dreamin’. Gillen’s face reddened to yet a deeper red. A seaman getting familiar with a master-at-arms first-class! A seaman!! Actually getting fresh! His skin drew in, bunched in wrinkles about the eyes, like that of a snarling tiger. “You’re a funny monkey, growled through his teeth. “Guess I am, at that,’ Snoots grinned. “Anyway I allus have to laugh when I look in a mirror. But I’d ruther have my face than yours, at that. Don’t it git yuh sore to look in a mirror?” This brought a chorus of laughs, for Gillen was anything but a beauty. He had leath- ery skin, a crooked nose, & cauliflower-ear, and cat’s eyes. During an argument of this sort there’s always a pup in the crowd, watching for an opportunity to yip yip himself into the good graces of the bigger dog. In this case the pup was a square-head—a deck-hand named Johnson. “Maybe Snoots won’t think it’s so funny when his face starts to break out.” While thus yip-yipping Johnson shot sev- eral glances toward Gillen to note progress. ‘‘And after he gets over it, maybe it won’t make him laugh to look in the mirror.” Johnson then moved over and leaned against the coffer-dam alongside of Gillen. He was a tall, loose, awkward kid, this square-head, with blond hair, blue eyes and pink skin. ‘Now ain’t he the nice doggie,” grinned Snoots. ‘‘Don’t he wag his tail nice. Aw, go on, Gillen, pet ’im. Don’t you see ’im beggin’ yuh to? ‘Go on, call ’im a nice doggie. Looka how nice he stands there, waggin’ his tail an’ takin’ your part.” Gillen, who hadn’t once taken his glaring eyes off Snoots, slid down off the coffer- dam. Snoots arose from his squatting posi- Snoots iterated. 9 39 ain’t you,” he tion. The two faced each other, six feet apart. Gillen spoke. “Say—you’re pretty —— fresh for a seaman.” “Yeah? Well, if yuh think yuh can take COMmicloo S ©