Adventure Magazine Cover, June 20, 1925 — page 81: what you’re looking at

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

Flood 63 blasted when no owner could be located. “Willie!” hallooed the manager, and be- gan to kick up leaf mold near the planks with the toes of his boots. “They towed it in,” he muttered; “there ought to be a good length of chain.”’ “You call me, Mistuh Bain?” “Yeah. Here’s that barge Michael and Joe towed in when the levee broke before. Help me find the chain. Maybe we can do something with it.” Together they tore up the loose earth with sticks, their finger nails and boot toes. The chain was finally unearthed. It had once been strong, and was still heavy; it was coated with the rust of six years’ exposure. They followed it up, digging it loose as they went. The landward end was padlocked around the base of a small tree. “Bout fifteen foot of hit,’ Willie com- mented. ‘‘Reckon dat ol’ boat’s any good, Mistuh Bain?” ~ “Tt won’t have to be very good to beat starving on this mound, Willie. This chain’s too short for what I had in mind; it’s rusty- rotten, too.” _ “Kin us git her out, Cap?” ‘We can try. About how far off is the wagon that’s got our tools and chains in it?” “Not so overly—’bout fifty foot from de edge of where de water is now. But Cap, dat water’s fifteen foot deep there now.” Bain grunted. He was thinking hard as they hastened back to camp. “Boys,” said the manager after the dis- covery had been announced, “‘if we can get our chains out of the tool wagon, I believe we can drag that old boat out. It must be pretty rotten, but there’s mighty little cur- rent in this back water, and maybe it’s a chance. Anyway, we can’t do better than “Boss, Ill dive fo’ dat wagon if you says so,” volunteered Channy. ‘Hit ain’t so overly cold—yet.”’ “You couldn’t do any good, Channy. A man don’t have any luck bringing up a log chain. Is there any rope or staging— even string will help—in your pockets?” Two of the men had each a ball of strong cotton cord. “T meant to set me a trot-line in Dupree Lake whilst we wuz heah,” one of them ad- mitted sheepishly, ‘‘but i guess de fishes is all done drownt by now.” “All right. Now twist those lines to- gether—that chain weighs something. Uncle John, cut us three good forks for grab-hooks; we'll bind ’em together. Your hackberry won t float; maybe we can use it in another way.” “Boss,” some one suggested, “ain’t us liable to hang on to de wagon wheels or stay-chains, an’ lose our hook an’ line?” “T thought of that. .Who knows exactly where the wagon is?”’ Several chorused— ‘T does!” “How do you know?” challenged the manager. “T driv hit,” asserted Channy. ‘Dat’s why I said I’d dive fo’ hit. I remembers hit was under dat big oak, juss under de spread- in’ limb, wid de tongue p’intin’ north an’ south.” “Can you swim out there with the hook John’s making, and drop it about in the wagon-box?”’ “Vessuh. I knows I can.” “Well, get ready. John, lemme your forks. Anybody got an old pocket knife, or something for a sinker?”’ Mote Green, the saw filer, had several heavy files. Bain selected the two smooth- est and least useful. “Mote, take good care of the others; we may need ’em,”’ he said as he bound the flat oblongs of steel to one shank of the impro- vised grappling-hook. He then notched the shank, and binding the three forks to- gether looped the line, which had been twisted securely, around it. “All set, Channy?”’ “Yessuh. Niggers, gimme room an’ pile de fiah! I’s cold now, an’ gittin’ mo’ so bref by bref!’ Stark naked, his knotty muscles lumping under the mellow brown of his skin, the driver paced down the slope. Bain handed him the wooden hook, and himself held the line. “Don’t dive in Channy—may bea sunk log or something.” “Br-r-r-r! Lawdy have mercy!” Splashing in waist deep the boy fell on his breast, and literally churned the muddy water. He circled under the limbs of the oak, got his bearings, shouted for slack on the line and let go. “Come in!” yelled Bain feeling the line settle. Channy came—with the noise and speed of a water-spout, not pausing until he was wallowing in the leaves two feet from the giant log-heap. COMIGDIOOKSEEO