Adventure Magazine Cover — page 41: what you’re looking at

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

Judique on the Floor rortune for her. A busted theatrical fiddler. A hobo. A notion pedler. The hiccuping laugh of the mate brought Donald to his knees so that he could be eye to eye with him. “But white, Tavish. A failure as a fid- dler, as a man; but white. I ain’t touched tar. But you—you thinking of her; you asking her to marry! Come out and let me kill yer, Tavish!”’ He shook the mate savagely. The effort was like trying to animate pig lead. The mate’s head lolled on his red neck; he chuckled triumphantly at Donald. “Fight yer; for why should I? Ye’re \icked. Ye’re off the floor. When I get north wi’ a pocket o’ grands where’ll ye be wi’ Jessie?” Donald let him go for fear he should strangle him; Tavish fell back on the pillow with a smile and closed his eyes. “Vm taking this rug. Ill give you all I’ve got for it.” A snore was Donald’s only answer as he emptied his pockets of the change left from his last bill. Theg, snatching the rug and his fiddle, he went on deck and jumped ashore. His languor was gone; he raced up Canal Street, crowded with evening saunterers; he turned into the narrower sidewalks of the quarter, where his rug and his fiddle case interfered with his swift navigation, till he came to Brigard’s on Bourbon Street. “M’sieur,” said fat old Brigard as he handed Donald a paper along with his key. Donald took the key; he did not see the paper; he strode across the sanded floor past the domino players, past Frangois and his heap of oyster shells, to the back stairs. These he took at a run, till he came to the gallery overlooking the little patio with its palm. He entered his room and turned on his light. The room was very high; the faded gilt cornice was dim with dust; close by the glazed door was a tall rosewood mirror beau- tifully ancient and not veneered; the water pitcher stood on a tabouret covered with faded silk rep; the rest of the furnishings were cheap and glaring Grand Rapids. . On the floor of this mortuary of old splendors Donald flung his rug. He tried to hook back into its place the bit of tartan, to start flying once more the flag of the old farmhouse. He remembered how Jessie used to do this; he did not have That’s good!” | 39 the proper hook; he used the can opener on his knife, and it seemed to him that Jessie’s fingers were touching and guiding his. “*M’sieur.”’ Brigard stood in the room. He had en- tered without knocking and was present- ing his bill. “M’sieur have no trunk. eet en avance.”’ Donald began to feel in his pockets when he remembered he had given all he had for this rug. His face told his plight before he could think up the fluent excuses of the show business. “TI mus’ ’ave zis chambre, m’sieur.”’ Deftly Brigard took the key from the door and held it open for Donald to vacate. The contemptuous swiftness of the Frenchman was galling. New Orleans could bounce a man quicker than Fond du Lac. ‘“‘Go slow a bit,” said Donald. “T’ll con- nect with money in a day or two. Mean- time how about holding this rug as se- curity?” Donald indicated that worn, weather- beaten textile as if it were a Bayeux tapes- try. Brigard made a mouth, spread his hands, shrugged his shoulders. “Your violin, m’sieur, might be suffisant, but zis old door mat—pfuil fi Brigard seemed as if he were about to expectorate on the magic carpet; he gave it a contemptuous kick. “Don’t do that,’ flared Donald, pushing him back not at all gently. The Frenchman tried to eject him; the little epicurean would put Judique off the floor; easily Donald sent him reeling back- wards. “T’ll go when I’m ready.” The Frenchman, who had landed sitting on the rug, drew from his pocket a whistle, which he began blowing shrilly. A clamor arose from the restaurant be- low. Donald decided he was ready now, for you can hold up landlords; you can not knock them down. He picked up his vio- lin and started to grab the rug from under Brigard. Brigard did not budge. He was very fat, his face purple and bulging with his effort to make that whistle shriek. Don- I mus’—’ave ald could not get the rug from under him. Below were running footsteps, agitated voices, a woman’s scream; Donald had barely time to leave the room, drop by the ironwork of the gallery to the patio and hide behind the palm. Anarmy of diners headed DOOLK CO inn