Adventure, August 3, 1919 — page 116: what you’re looking at

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

Howling Jims Pal BY HAPSBURG LIEBE Auther of “Big Balsam Joc," “ Peep-Eye,” ete. OR three hours the snow had been falling steadily. The white blanket that covered Little Brother Moun- tain and Big Brother Mountain— and the broad and thickly wooded valley that lay between them—was five inches deep. Im the center of the valley Big Brother Creek flowed merrily, passing the Morgan-Haley Lumber Company’s logging outfit and pouring its crystal waters into Laurel River some four miles below. Night had come. Supper was over at the Morgan-Haley camp, and the majority of the timberjacks had deserted the big and rough boarding-house for the commis- sary’s glowing cast-iron stove. These were stalwart and sunburned fellows, all moun- taineers and all dressed alike in laced boots and broad hats, blue flannel shirts and clay- colored corduroys. Gideon Ashford, a big logger whose beard was so black that his freshly-shaven face hada bluish look, had just beguna harangue, setting forth in his uncouth way the extraor- dinary beauty of one Miss Nancy Kirk- land, when an interrupting voice came from the other side of the red-hot stove. “Shet up!” with an icy snap. “When ye ain’t got nothin” to say, say it!” “Humph!” grunted the impudent Ash- ford. He was the bully and smart Aleck of the camp. “Is that you, ‘Lonesome’? Why, I thought ye was asleep. It’s got to be that ye’re real sassy when ‘Howlin’ Jim’ ain’t around to keep ye quiet. Fust _thing ye know, ye’ll have some trouble, Lonesome, a-tellin’ grown folks to shet up thataway!” TT His words carried a bite. The man called ““Lonesome”’ sat on a soap box with his legs crossed and with his forearms resting on his upper knee. He was a tall and rangey young man, as hard as hickory and as lithe as a panther and remarkably taciturn at times—which, of course, had bred for him his nickname. For six months he had been with the Morgan-Haley crew, and still no- body seemed to know anything about him save Howling Jim Baskin—unless it was old Nathan Kirkland’s daughter, Nancy. Howling Jim—he had a voice that would have made a fog-horn blush, and he used it at every decent opportunity—had come to the camp on Big Brother Creek with Lone- some Bentley. He was at least thirty-five, and ten years older than Bentley. But theirs had been a wonderfully tight friend- ship for all of that. Lonesome did not favor Ashford with a reply. A few of the onlooking timberjacks snickered, because they didn’t know what else to do. Ashford laughed outright at that which he was pleased to think of as the other’s discomfiture. Just then there came to the ears of those in the commissary a snatch of a foolish old song in the ringing voice of Howling Jim, who was leaving the boarding-house for the big stove. “I’m a-goin’ to live, anyhow, till I die— Anyhow, anyhow, till I die!” “Howlin’s a-comin’,” grinned Ashford. “T reckon ye'll behave yerself Row, Lone- some.” Bentley stuck fast to his motto, “When _ye ain’t got nothin’ to say, say it,” and was 106 . SS ae