Adventure Magazine, March 1916 — page 212: what you’re looking at

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

210 The weeks that followed seemed to justify this view. As she wrote, the Brigadier ap- peared to have forgotten Gordon’s existence. So while he “wore his poor dear self out running around those black mountains after the renegades from that horrible Dato Pedro’s tribe,” she was proceeding blissfully toward the completion of her trousseau. : | Hence Gordon dropped to sleep each night feeling that he had drained a full and happy cup. His days were filled with calisthenics, drills, inspections, map-ma- king, and—letters to and from Manila. There were also sundry engagements with unidentified pulajane bands—suspected of being in the pay of Dato Pedro—in which the ripple in his ranks proved to be that of a well-tempered blade. This was especially pleasing, for when a young soldier-smith sees that the forging of his hand will not break with bending, what more can he ask of the Chief Artisan? “Til tell you!” he cried to Bunga, coming down three months after his trip to Manila. “It’s a ripping world—ripping! Oh, if you could see the little beggars!” , “Poof!”? jeered Bunga. were only feeling you out. Let old Dato Pedro take'a direct hand in it once, and you'll be wiped out.” | “Will we now? Why, I have the old beg- gar’s country mapped—know every foot of it. Let him make a move that justifies our attacking him. We’ll——” Suddenly he broke off, looking seaward. “Ah, there’s the Seward!” he cried, and rushed for his pony. “Off for the mail, el padre-capitan! Ta-ta.” SO BUNGA watched him depart, his keen, clean-cut face aglow with the fires of youth. And an hour later he came back slowly, his head hanging upon his breast. The sunken eyes held the haunting shadows of a misery too deep to \ S gage. “T’ll resign, all right,” he groaned, after entering the quarters. “T’ll never go near the governor again, though—never!”’ Bunga was staring at the letters which Gordon had handed him. One was from the Brigadier, one from her, and one to the Brigadier from Mr. MacDonald. In ac- ‘cordance with the information in Mr. Mac- Donald’s letter, the Brigadier demanded Gordon’s immediate resignation, with the “Those fellows. Adventure alternative of dismissal once the facts had been forwarded to Washington. Mr. MacDonald’s letter to the Brigadier ran thus: I am not surprised to learn that the young man has refused to consider your natural wishes for your daughter’s future comfort. A boy who can utterly disregard every wish of a man who has voluntarily clothed and fed him from childhood can not be ex- pected to consider any other person than himself. But what would you? Over a year ago an old nurse, connected at one time with the foundling asylum from which I took him, came to me and confessed that, because they knew I had taken a fancy to him, and might refuse to take him if he were illegitimate, they had given him the name and birth rights of a baby who died a few days before I adopted him. Even then I was loathe to tell this, or to cut him off; but after giving him every chance, I can not but feel that, under the circumstances, it is my duty to inform you of it. I must also say that I can no longer feel responsible for either his actions or his financial transactions. The letter from the girl was the longest of all. It was full of emotional statements to the effect that she would have followed him to the end of-the world, etc., etc., but in view of the facts disclosed she could not bring herself to disgrace the family name. “Tf I only had the running of hell!” gritted Bunga. He pushed the letters away from him in disgust and turned to the boy. He drew a long breath, “Well,” he said at last, “what are you going to do?” “Tl resign, of course.” “What for?” The apparent absurdity of the question stirred Gordon from his stunned lethargy. “What for? Aren’t those letters enough?” Bunga pointed to the girl’s letter. “‘_____!_ You wouldn’t lie down because of ker, would you?” The boy winced before the contemptuous tones. “You probably won’t understand,” he said. 7 “Oh, no, of course not!” snorted Bunga. He had the womanish desire to take this lad in his arms, but a man born of woman needs the strength of a man when he is in the dumps, and Bunga’s tones cut like a whip lash. ‘Of course you’re the first decent chap that ever rubbed on a brass lamp.”’ “But you don’t understand, Captain. It’s losing what I—what I thought she was——” “Yes, but aren’t you man enough to Gomichoo S (E@) im