Adventure Magazine Cover, October 30, 1924 — page 157: what you’re looking at

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

Great Days scraped and perfumed by a barber. The sort of fellows, they were, that get into ringside seats and yell their heads off, but grow wobbly in the knees at the smell of a fist. Elbow to elbow they now stood with the mouchers, the fellows that were never seamen, but hung about the waterfront, taking the drinks of free-handed sailors, patting Jack on the back, and rolling him if he staggered in a dark place. Some of them held beer mugs from which they took an occasional sip, but with eyes steady over the rim so as to miss nothing. The proprietor of the Rest Easy, a hard man, as he had to be in order not to be once in a while kicked out of his joint by some peevish stevedore, but a bit bloated from too much sampling of his own goods, had tucked his white apron into the waist- band of his trousers and, bungstarter in hand to see fair play, stood in the front rank of the onlookers, twisting a drooping mustache with his free hand. Both fighters were strangers, so he played no favorite; and his idea of fair play merely forbade the use of knife, club or gun. Anything else went. A fellow could use whatever Nature, assisted by the shoemaker, had given him. Buck was a hard-knuckle scrapper. He believed in taking what the other fellow had to give and in handing back what he could. Webster’s knuckles were as hard as any man’s; and the Duke, in a friendly way, had from time to time poked his nose until Webster learned a bit about guarding and ducking—but the smallest bit imaginable. Like all rough fighters, they struck for the face; and most of the blows went home. Each of Webster’s fists had the weight of a twelve pound sledge, and Buck was as big a man, with the driving power of a jibing boom in his arms. ’Arry Coy had picked himself up, and while he danced about like a one-legged man in an egg race, he squawked en- couragement to his champion. Buck and Webster went to it with smash and crash, crouch and swing. Then Webster put over a whirling fist and knocked Buck down. Buck rolled over with a cat-like back- ward scramble just in time to miss the swing of a hobnailed foot; then coming to a crouch rushed forward, headlong. This rapid recovery caught Webster off 147 guard, and the half-ton blow to the jaw spun him around and dumped him over. He lighted on his back, and as Buck came on, reckless with triumph, Webster shot out both feet. Buck recovered his balance some ten feet back. By that time Webster was up again, and they went to it, swinging, lurching, lunging. ‘Pretty work,’’ commented the critical proprietor, tucking the bungstarter under an arm and beginning to roll a cigaret, but without moving his eyes from the fight. George and his two fat friends were purple in the face from excitement. They hopped up and down, eager to see the blood flow, a man go down and stay there. They whooped and pranced, having the time of theit lives, seeing a real fight. Both fighters were soon breathing like a pair of porpoises that come to the top after dodging a swarm of sharks. They stood toe to toe, swinging right and Jeft and back again. Their arms were a bit slower in getting started, but the blows had weight and they took them without flinching. Then Webster put over one that nearly shut Buck’s left eye by cutting the skin of the overhanging brow; and Buck, stung to extra strength, dropped a bunch of knuckles squarely against Webster’s mouth, loosen- ing teeth and making the lips puff up like a mushroom. Blinded a bit by the blood, Buck stepped back and wiped his face with a tattooed forearm. “Had enough?” said Webster. - no! I just stopped to ask what graveyard your family uses!’’ And they were at it again. ‘Good boys,” said the proprietor of the Rest Easy approvingly as he blew a stream of smoke through his nose and gave an upward pull to his mustache. George was howling his delight, and struck pudgy palm to thigh in admiration of Buck’s wit. “Heat ’im hup, Dick! Heat ’im hup!’ yelled ’Arry Coy, jumping about, shadow boxing to illustrate. BUT the men now fought with weary muscles. Their arms dragged, being so tired they would almost Ano from the weight of the fists swinging at long range—so they moved in closer, micloool (© in