Adventure Magazine Cover — page 101: what you’re looking at

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

The Lord of the Stony Rises making a dead set for me, Gilding ’as.” “You were drunk. There is no possible excuse for drunkenness. Moderation, that’s the thing. Moderation, Mitcham. Try to learn. ‘This is the eighteenth. I am going to give you your full month’s wages——”’ “Gilding,” protested Mitcham, “‘ ’e’s been laying for me. I tell you, Mr. Burdette, it’s true. All because I been ’ere a matter of four years, ’e’s afraid, and ’e waited ’is chance——”’ “You can’t be expected to tell the truth,”’ said John Burdette. know from experience. I am sorry, Mitch- am. I trusted you, you failed me, there- fore we part company. That’s the in- flexible rule. You leave today. It is there for you to read and remember— ‘Go, and sin no more.’ ”’ He spoke calmly, listening intently to the sound of his steady voice, pleased, too, to observe the sweat breaking out in glisten- ing beads on Mitcham’s forehead: Another man tested im the Credion crucible and found wanting! “I wasn’t drunk,” declared Mitcham, crushing the brim of his hat in his clenched fist. ‘It’s a —— lie. I ’ad a drink—sure enough I ’ad a drink. What’s the matter with that? And up comes Gilding with ’is pursed up lips— Oh, you don’t know Gilding, by —— you don’t! “ ‘Caught you, my boy!’ says he, just like that, soft and purring. ‘Now you're done for. I’li drive these bullocks myself.’ . ! I thought ’e was joking. And I thought this morning when I was told to come ’ere it was still a joke. ’Aven’t I worked myself to the bone and ’aven’t I slaved? I’ve done it willingly, Mr. Bur- dette, you know tha “ He broke off, looking anxiously at his chief, for he suddenly realized by the look on the latter’s face that his case was hope- less. That look made him forget his fear. “D’you mean it straight—I got to quit?” he demanded, swaying forward, his eyes blazing. “You go now,’’ answered John Burdette. “Your tongue drips filth. Lies, slander; abuse, profanity! Stay here—you? After this exhibition? Run the risk of having every man in my employ contaminated? A thousand times—no!” He checked his indignant outburst and concluded: “May you learn to repent, Mitcham, and in ad- “All drunkards lie, I~ Go back to the bunk-house. — OI versity conquer the evil in your heart. I can not help you. Here is your money. Gilding has orders to see you leave at once.”’ “Gilding be ——!” exclaimed Mitcham, taking a step forward. “You old fool, you sit there spouting your cant at me. To with you! You like to see a bloke act like a worm, your kind does. Modera- tion—and all I can buy at your canteen is slops and rotten whisky—you got prime port, ain’t your? You don’t drink—no, not ’awf, you don’t. I know you! And I’m going, by —— I’m going, and before I’m done with you you’re going to be sorry.” John Burdette never moved. His hands lay on the clean green blotting pad with all ten fingers splayed out, flat down— steel claws clothed in firm, pink flesh. He said: “I give you ten seconds to leave this house. If you don’t go willingly I shall have you thrown out. That’s all. Good day.” Nothing, it seemed, could move him, neither threats nor abuse. Angered and beaten Mitcham glared at his tormentor and the hot blood gushed to his brain in one convulsive beat of his heart. How or why it happened he never knew, but when the mist cleared from his eyes he found himself in mid-air springing at Burdette’s throat. Burdette kicked back his chair and at the same instant his right fist, backed by every ounce of his two hundred pounds of bone and sinew, swept upward and crashed against Mitcham’s forehead. He was glad to see Mitcham’s face suddenly run with blood. Without a word he moved swiftly forward, caught the stockrider in his hands, raised him off the ground and pitched him out of doors through the French windows. Gilding, his round face white with excite- ment, came running up with two native houseboys at his heels. ‘“‘This man been making trouble, sir?’’ he inquired breathlessly. “No,” said John Burdette, his hands in his coat pockets, unruffled as ever. ‘He has not been making trouble, though he tried. I think I have cured him. Have I cured you, Mitcham? You won’t answer, eh? That’s much better. Now get up; you’re not really hurt. “Gilding, you might make sure he’s on his way in thirty minutes. And send both © these boys as far as the river with him. , Arm them.” Co DOOLK 1 O)