Adventure Magazine, December 10, 1924 — page 94: what you’re looking at

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

72 —none could swear what—come and gone before you could blink, a drumming, hur- tling dark blur, shooting through and over everything in its path. The way he threaded a heather brake was one marvel, but the manner in which he took the cliff path down to the sea was hair- raising, and a greater miracle. At no moment could one have said that one saw him. He became rather an impression. I suppose his wonderful clean hard feet touched the ground, they never seemed to, and I swear he flew most of the cliff path like a bird. The greatest miracle of all was that he arrived in one piece at the bottom of it. Speed? W-e-l-l, say, he had put up some wind-beating records in his lifetime, but this straight streak—whrrrsh—was the biggest ever. Snowzer arrived in the spray and spotless boiling spume smother at the edge of the waves about a quarter of a mile away, like a bursting twelve-inch shell. There was something dark rolling about in the dazzling, hissing turmoil there, and it whistled. That was all it could do— whistle! It was practically insensible, still it whistled. Its last brain message had been to whistle. And it whistled for Snowzer, one peculiar kind of whistle, the only whistle under heaven that Snowzer had ever been known to answer. Snowzer said nothing. He grabbed that long dark thing, that rolled about in the dazzling, seething surf, by the scruff of its collar, and he tugged. Jove! how that canine four-legged thing tugged and tugged backward and backward, inch by gasp- ing inch, helped by the foaming lip of each wave—up the beach, gradually, gradually, gradually, and unconsciously helped by the body itself. At last Snowzer could do no more, and Adventure collapsed, sobbing. It seemed as if his heart would burst. But after a time, he crawled to the shape and began to lick—at its face! It was the body of a man. Many minutes passed before anything happened after that, and then the man opened his eyes, and instantly his eyes were open he started whistling, but the whistle was licked out of his mouth by a hot tongue, and the man sat up with a jerk. ““——’s truth!” he almost shouted. Snowzer!”’ Snowzer said nothing, but nearly had wriggling hysterics of joy. He could not speak, and he was always a dumb dog, any- how, but if he could have spoken, he might have barked— “Bless my whiskers and fangs! Young Bill.” It was. A hare going over the moor knew it just before dawn, for he passed, killed at good- ness knows how many miles an hour, by way of Snowzer’s jaws to Young Bill’s capacious pocket. A partridge asleep with his family passed, also via Snowzer’s jaws, straight from deep slumber into oblivion, and that same pocket. And the roedeer in the beechwood, it was, who saw the fire lighted in the hollow tree, wherein Young Bill snuggled naked while his clothes dried, and the hare and the partridge together sizzled on sticks—good fare for man and beast, and man and beast, crouched side by side, ate ’em, washed down with crystal mountain stream water which bubbled close by, and, for Young Bill only, with a quatern o’ brandy from a flask. The rising sun found a fully dressed man and a dog sound asleep in a warm bracken couch, as if nothing had happened. They were quite happy, those two. They had found each other and themselves. Tt’ ¢ It’s CoOMmichool< Yh) (© =