Adventure Magazine Cover — page 115: what you’re looking at

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

Go-Fever to each other with hoarse cries like so many bullfrogs, sloshing around ankle-deep. By sheer good luck Cole tripped over a projecting root and, embracing the trunk, found it hollow and with an opening almost large enough to admit him. ‘This entrance was about three feet from the ground. He halloed his find to keep the rest near him, wedged in and groped gingerly, afraid of snakes yet driven by necessity, and yelled with joy to find the bottom of the interior stored with decayed wood that was dry while the sides were also free from damp and smelled resinous. He lighted a match and saw that the hollow ran high like a chimney though it must be closed at the top. Carefully he coaxed and fed a tiny fire that flickered, fal- tered, smoked confoundedly but persevered though it gave little heat until Reynolds broke through the side of the shell and the draft sucked at the flames and soon, in defiance of the slowly failing rain, flared like a mighty torch while they turned themselves about like spitted roasts, took off their clothes and dried them, reveling in the warmth and light. There was no wind, the hollow tree had few boughs and no foliage, the neighbors were well soaked and far enough apart to resist contagion and the roaring pillar burned alone until it collapsed just before morning that came gray and foggy, with an atmosphere that Petrie likened to a com- bination of a hothouse and an overworked steam laundry. The wet ground had kept them from bedding down and they ate a sleepy breakfast while the reluctant sun sucked up the mist and once more dried the soul of the forest—the hoodooed forest—as Cole christened it. Nor had the hoodoo ended. Petrie woke with Reynolds striking off his face a black spider with a scarlet splash on its body that had swung its aerial cable trom above and descended to within an inch of his nose be- fore the Anzac wakened and happened to observe it. “Tarantula?” asked Petrie, inspecting the insect calmly. “Worse. ‘That spider means a three days paralysis, if you’relucky. If you’re not you stay that way till they put a lily in your hand and wire your folks what shall they do with the body. “You chaps may think I’m jollying you sone the snakes and spiders but I’m not. 113 There’s a big woolly black spider that makes you vomit and gives you cramps and there are a dozen snakes that are pals of the undertakers.” “T’ll take your word for. it,” said Petrie. That was a short day’s hike. They passed the swamp by circling it. Low mist stil) rose from the reeds and one vista showed them dark water with overhanging trees and others that leaned or lay rotted in the water. These were festooned with snakes, sluggishly looped from the boughs, their coils intermingled, their musky odor heavy on the air. It took them three days to work through the forest scrubs. On the evening of the third day Reynolds found that his favorite pipe was missing—the bowl of his alternate was charred and cracked. 7 “T laid it at the foot of the tree where we had noon chow,” he said. ‘It’s two hours till dark and I’m going back. I won’t be packing anything and I[’ll make good time.” “Risky going it alone this time of the day,’ suggested Cole. “The dog’s been fussing, too. Better let one of us go back with you and the other can stay by a fire.” “The pup’s been fussy right along. I wouldn’t lose that pipe right now, for a farm. T’ll take my automatic and if anything shows up I’ll fire—just once—to save cartridges. ‘That ’ud scare off any Myalls —and stop you worrying,” Reynolds added with a grin. Ite went off at a good gait whistling. It was dusk when he came back guided by the leaping flames, supper ready. His face was Serious. “There are blacks around all right,” he said. “I didn’t see any tracks. They’re too smart for that. But I left that empty tobacco can right with the pipe—and they’re both gone. No dingo did that—or snake either. The can they’d be crazier for than the pipe. It’s my own fault. [ll have to make the old one last out, but I guess the pup wasright. They are tracking us for some reason. That ain’t all. I shortcut back knowing I’d see the fire easy enough when it got dark and I picked this up.” It was a burned match end. Not wood but the remnant of a vesta match, tiny woven wicks covered with wax and headed with ignition, sold in small metal boxes and popular for their damp-resisting package. They did not have any of them in their DOOLK C@ in