Adventure Magazine, December 10, 1924 — page 139: what you’re looking at

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

Cinders Jim Hilton. Slim did not turn his head, but walked slowly to the far edge of the plat- form, following the departing train. But Alicia did not wink again. She picked up her book, dipped into the chocolates and faded out in the distance. Slim sighed, turned around and looked into the face of Sadie Thompson. He shud- dered. Barney and Jim were watching them. ‘So that’s the way you put in your time, is it?’ demanded Sadie. “Flirting with every girl you see, eh?” “I—I wasn’t flirtin’,” denied Slim. “My gosh, Sadie, I never : “Yes?” Sadie grew sarcastic. ‘‘Didn’t I see that wink? Here!’’ She tugged at the third finger of her left hand and gave him back his ring. “Ym all through with you,” she de- clared chokingly. ‘I will never trust a man again. Take back your fickle ring.” Sadie turned and hurried toward home, while behind her came Slim, looking all spraddled out, as he tried to catch her and explain. But Sadie walked erratically down the narrow sidewalk, which kept Slim jump- ing from side to side; much to the amuse- ment of every one who observed it. Sadie beat him to the gate, fastened it from the inside, and faced him—a picture of outraged womanhood. “Go back!”’ Sadie pointed dramatically. “Get on your horse and follow the maid. I want no more of you!” Slim went. There was no good reason why he should stay. Back there on the sunny side of the depot, where the ther- mometer registered one hundred and ten degrees in the shade, Slim sat in the sun, and cogitated over the vagaries of women. The incident passed from the mind of Alicia Steele. It was only one wink among many. If her wink brought a thrill to that fat cowboy, he was welcome to it. Two miles out of San Rego the train lurched to another stop. ge HALF an hour later the conductor, =sJ perspiring, dusty, came to the Lake *“ Louise and informed James Worth- ington Steele that half the axle-boxes on the train were on fire, and they would have to be delayed another hour. James Worthington Steele mopped his brow and swore. It was imperative that he move on. 117 “‘Can’t be did,” declared the conductor, “Tt’s ten miles to Mesquite City, and ten more to the Mission Junction. I’m afraid you won’t be able to hook this car on to No. 117. They are due there in thirty minutes.” James Worthington Steele was a good railroad man; so he did not rave. He knew just how bad most of their rolling-stock was. But he must at least get a message through; so the conductor ran a wire from the Lake Louise, tapped the telegraph, and let James Worthington Steele send his own messages. Be it known that James Worthington Steele had at one time been a dispatcher on this same road; so it was no trouble for him to handle his correspondence via wire, through the medium of his own private telegraph instrument, which had long since been part of the Lake Louise’s equipment. After proving an alibi for not being able to attend the important meeting, which he managed to postpone, he went back.to his game of pinocle. Not that he wanted to play; but his wife did. The instrument clacked merrily away, and excited the interest of Alicia, who was becoming more bored each moment. On the polished mahogany table was a code book, containing the station calls, codes, etc., and on the fly-leaf was printed the Morse code of telegraphy. Alicia glanced over it, and the code, with its dots and dashes, attracted her. She scanned the pages for San Rego. The sta- tion call was SR. Looking back at the code, she found the two letters. She had seen her father use it many times; so what could be easier? She sat down, opened the key and began laboriously to tap out the SR signal. Sev- eral times she repeated it, before closing the key. The sounder rattled, as the opera- tor at San Rego answered his call. Alicia had no idea what he was saving, but she had an idea of what she was going to say. Her ennui was all gone now. Back in the hot little depot at San Rego, old Bill Thompson, the father of Sadie, squinted at the sounder of his instrument, a scowl on his face, as it began slowly ticking out a message. ““H-e-l-p,h-e-l-p,h-e-I-p.”’ The dots, dashes and spaces were not the work of a telegrapher. The agent cut open his key and wanted to know who in the Comicbook (© =