Adventure Magazine Cover, October 30, 1924 — page 174: what you’re looking at

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

164 Slop picked up by the heavy wheels sprayed him up and down. He was left with a bad taste. “Skunks,” he raged between dabs with an old handkerchief. ‘“The pups! Watch me nail the next one.” He backed to the shadow of the fence and waited the approach of a second lorry. It did not come. Waiting grew tiresome. Legs cramped. The drizzle had not let up. Vigilance wavered. Down the street a window glowed. “Better than the rain,” said Tobin and he pulled away to the glow. Delight kindled within him as he saw C-A-F-E lettered on the glass. The second lorry came. It came with a roll of thunder over the village street. From a café door something bounced out as though propelled by springs. The something was Tobin, who planted himself squarely in the path of the oncoming truck, brought his rifle to his shoulder and lined the sights on nothing in particular. Tobin’s grip was unsteady and the barrel of his Enfield jiggled but the truck driver under- stood just the same and he brought his charge to a grinding stop. ‘“Wot’s up?” boomed a voice, suspi- ciously Australian, from the lorry’s cab. Tub Tobin delayed reply until he’d scrambled over the tailboard. “Wanna lift. Thashall,” he said rather thickly. From a second Aussie throat issued a peremptory demand that he make himself scarce. Aside— “A Canajun back there, digger. Shall I chuck the blighter out?” Now, Tub Tobin didn’t relish any chuck- ing. Although he had little use for Aussies in general he was quite content under the circumstances to accept whatever hospi- tality they had to offer. For the way was rough and the going tough and he just had to get to Neuville St. Vaast, by hook or by crook, or his crime sheet would blossom out shortly with a new entry. A. W. L. was frowned upon in his unit. So his mind reverted to his leather belt and his red dog winnings therein. Adopting a confidential tone he laid his cards on the table. “T’ll give you birdsh fifty francs to put me down at my doorstepsh.”’ ‘Good money?” enquired one of the Aussies. ‘Sure thing!’ Adventure “Not enough.” “ANT got. Wait!” Tobin dug in his haversack and brought out a thin-necked bottle which he passed up for inspection. “Coney an’ cash for pass—hic hic— passhage on your ol’ boat.” “Righto, Canada,” drawled the lorry pilot and at once entered into the spirits of the occasion. Gurgles—more gurgles! The crash of the bottle on the road-stones, and the truck again got going. Presently— “Hi, there, Canada. W’ere to?” ‘“Noovilsavash,” grunted Tobin. ““T say, where?” “‘Noov—hic—Noo’vas,” wheezed the pas- senger from the platform where he reclined, head pillowed on his box respirator. The driver scratched his head, remarking to himself: ‘Hof course, I knows that place. B’low Arras.” Into the night the lorry plunged. Kilo after kilo, up hill and down hill, rolled be- neath the rumbling wheels. Eastward a red glow suffused the skyline. Some dump burning! Closer, pin-point flashes of pale yellow evidenced activity of batteries. At a cross-roads a strident voice arrested their dash. “Lamps off, there.” Lamps went dead and the going became slower. Time winged swiftly by. Nearer and nearer they drew to the front. By the wayside a great howitzer coughed deafen- ingly and a silver streak shot up into the heavens. Once the lorry paused momen- tarily for a pitch hole. Above the softened roar of the engine could be heard the thump- ing of guns—all around. But still Tub Tobin slept. He awakened with a jolt. Something had banged him in the back. Startled, he felt beneath him. Sticky stuff! Hit? He’d been hit. That was his first thought. Further exploration, however, recorded no hurt. His hand brought up only slimy clay with which all French roads are smeared. He bent his ear. Back to him, sprawled there on the highway, came the sound of rumbling wheels. Chucked out, eh? And by those dirty diggers, too! Well, he’d have to make the best of it. There was no use crying over spilled milk. Finding his feet he stumbled off the road. A pile of white brick showed through the gloom. Pawing a hole in the mMICLOOOKS im