Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 13, 1920 — page 109: what you’re looking at

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

THE SNOW BATH. the interval of waiting for the return of the boat all the harder to endure. The pin-point of lantern light showed at the crest of a lofty swell. It hovered there for a moment, then it vanished as the boat descended into the trough. Some seconds passed, and then it reappeared, to disappear again. And at every fresh ap- pearance it became plainer, larger. Now we could distinguish the forms of men, and soon we heard their voices from the shad- ows under us. “Now. Look out, there! second!” Hold on a There was an interval of silence. Some This story will be concluded in next week’s issue of the ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, 387 one had chosen the wrong moment to leave the small boat and grip the ladder which hung down the vessel’s steep flank. The voices rose again: ‘‘ Easy there. Now you make it,” And this time he did. Some one was climbing up. Out of the darkness he came slowly to- ward the light, revealing himself as long and lank and dark, his face a blur of white- ness which in turn resolved itself into lines and lineaments when the light shone fairly upon it. | I knew the man who was boarding us. It was the man with the spoiled eye. the consolidated title under which both magazines will appear hereafter as one. by Frank A. Halverson dog.” The surprised ejaculation startled the stillness of the big camp room as Duane Hempfield sprang into the roaring snow- storm that was raging through the white- laden trees of the Great North Woods. ‘““They’re not much to look at,” com- mented S. Ferdinand Stokes as he joined the group of hunters at the window. ‘ After what Duane’s been saying about this fellow, one would expect to see something better.” The hunters of the Golden Arrow Camp gave S. Ferdinand a silent glance of dis- gust. The unspoken language of their eyes said mutely that S. Ferdinand was not a good sport, nor the kind of a fellow they could be with on a hunting trip. | The truth of the matter was that Reuben Yee Trapper Reuben and his and his dog Patches were not much to look at. They were not showy or classy. Reu- ben’s clothes were heavy woolen, torn and patched, but comfortable and warm. A coon-skin cap protected his head and his ears, thick mittens covered his hands from the stinging Northern wind that scourged the hills and valleys of the Golden Arrow Camp, and his feet were encased in heavy felt boots with Mackinaw rubbers. The whole assortment gave him a kind of a bun-" dleman’s appearance. On the white trail outside of the camp, Duane was petting Patches endearingly. He was hunched in the snow and he was greet- ing the fine, upstanding dog, who held his’ keen, intelligent head proudly as only a Kentucky fox-hound can, and one who has the breeding and blood of the best Walker comicbooks eon