Adventure Magazine, March 1916 — page 138: what you’re looking at

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

& e yey . wf Oven | : ; i, 136 “Go on in, fellah,” said Loudon. ‘“‘Yo’re dinner’s a-comin’.”’ 3 He walked ’round to the front of the hotel. Under the wooden awning a beefy, red- faced citizen was dozing in a chair tilted back against the wall. Loudon tapped the snoring individual on the shoulder. The sleeper awoke gaspingly, his eyes winking. The chair settled on four legs with a crash. “Howdy, Bill,” said Loudon gravely. “Howdy, Tom,” gurgled the other. “Hoss in the corral an’ me here, Bill. Feeds for two.” “Sure. We've done et, but you go in an’ holler for Lize. She'll fix you up.” The fat landlord waddled stablewards, and Loudon entered the hotel. A partition that did not reach the ceiling divided the sleeping-apartments from the dining-room. Carelessly hanging over the partition were two shirts and some one’s chaps. The whole floor slanted, for, as has been said, the hotel leaned sidewise. The long table in the dining-room, covered with cracked and scaling oilcloth, was held un- steadily upright by three legs and a cracker box. Loudon, quite untouched by this scene of shiftlessness, hooked out a chair with his foot, dropped his hat on the floor, and sat down, “Oh, Mis’ Lainey!” he called. A female voice, somewhat softened by distance and a closed door, instantly began to make oration to the effect that if any lazy chunker of a puncher thought he was to eat any food he was very much mis- taken. The door banged open. A slatternly, scrawny woman appeared in the doorway. She was still talking. But the clacking tongue changed its tone abruptly. “Oh, it’s you, Tom Loudon!” exclaimed the lean woman. ‘‘How are ye, anyway? I’m sure glad to see ye. I thought ye was one 0’ them rousy fellers, an’ I wouldn’t rustle no more chuck this noon for the likes o’ them, not if they was starvin’ an’ their tongues was hangin’ out a foot. But you're different, an’ I ain’t never forgot the time you rode ‘thirty mile for a doc. when my young one was due to cash. No, you bet I ain’t! Now don’t you say nothin’. You jest set right patient a short spell an’ Ill rustle——” The door swung shut, and the remainder of the sentence was lost in a muffled din of Adventure pans. Loudon winked at the closed door and grinned. He had known the waspish Mrs. Lainey and her paunchy husband since that day when, newly come to the Lazy River coun- try, he had met them, their buckboard wrecked by a runaway and their one child apparently dying of internal injuries, Though Loudon always minimized what he had done, Mrs. Lainey and her husband did not. And they were not folk whose mem- ories are short. In less than twenty minutes Mrs. Lainey brought in a steak, fried potatoes and coffee. The steak was fairly tough, so were the potatoes, and the coffee required a copious quantity of condensed milk to render it drinkable. But Loudon ate with a rider’s appetite. Mrs. Lainey, arms folded in her apron, leaned against the door-jamb, and regaled him with the news of Farewell. “TInjun Joe got drunk las’ week an’ tried to hogtie Riley’s bear. It wasn’t hardly worth while buryin’ Joe, but they done it. Mis’ Stonestreet has a new baby. This un makes the twelfth. Yep, day before yes- tiddy. Charley’s so proud over it he ain’t been sober since. Slep’ in the waterin’- trough las’ night, so he did, an’ this morn- in’ he was drunk as ever. But he never did do things by halves, that Charley Stone- street. Ain’t the heat awful? Yep, it’s worse’n that. Did ye hear about——” Poor, good-hearted Mrs. Lainey! With her, speech was a disease. Loudon ate as hurriedly as he could, and fled to the side- walk. Bill Lainey, who had fallen asleep again, roused sufficiently to accept six bits. “Mighty drowsy weather, Tom,” he mumbled. “Tt must be,” said Loudon. ‘So long.” Leaving the sleepy Lainey to resume his favorite occupation, Loudon walked away. Save Lainey, no human beings were visible on the glaring street. In front of the Palace Saloon two cow-ponies drooped. Near the post-office stood another, bearing on its hip the Cross-in-a-box brand. From the door of the post-office issued the loud and cheerful tones of a voice whose owner was well pleased with the world at large. “Guess Ill get that ribbon first,” said Loudon to himself, and promptly walked behind the post-office. ~ He had recognized the cheerful voice. It was that of his friend, Johnny Ramsay, Fcomicbooks (EO)