Adventure Magazine Cover — page 124: what you’re looking at

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

114 He picked up a broom from the corner of the pen and held the bushy end of it toward ‘ the infuriated game-cock. Old Calomel distinguished another enemy and buckled into the broom with beak and spur. The hot African blood of Uncle Mose was — boiling. “Go to it, yo’ punkin-colored ——cat,”’ he spluttered. .“I hope yo’ breaks one 0’ yo’ laigs. I hope yo’ poke one 0’ yo’ eyes out, Se Se op? He heard a reproving cough behind him and turned to see the Reverend Epaminon- das Bung, his beloved pastor, regarding him with stern disapproval. He realized that he had violated church ethics and had been ae in the act. He managed to grab the struggling cock by the leg; slouched over and put him in his pen. His brain was working like lightning. He knew that he was in for a lecture and was strengthening his defense. ; The Reverend Bung was a disciple of muscular Christianity. A product of the Rooseveltian era, he was an enthusiastic sportsman. He owned a gun of tried use- fulness, a bird-dog that was the envy even of the white folks and he was, perhaps, the most ardent fisherman that ever graced the banks of the Little Red. Just now he was on his way to the shady spot beneath the big sycamore where Gin Creek empties into the river, below Bee Rock. It was an ideal day in Spring, and gogele-eye and crappie would be sure to ite He had gone a little out of the way to pass the shanty of Uncle Mose. He had to consult his favorite deacon. A new organ was needed for the church; interest on the mortgage was overdue. He had even dreamed that it was possible to cancel the debt that Spring. Unele Mose, while not exactly a man of means, was never without some money. connection with the well-known and much-loved sportsman, John Holland, ar- gued well for his financial condition. John was always liberal with his faithful retainer and at times Uncle Mose was a financier. After returning from Helena or Memphis, where John usually fought his cocks each Winter, his pockets bulged with greenbacks. It was generally supposed that this dis- play of wealth was the legitimate fruit of his wages, but some of the brethren of a rival Adventure. Baptist organization had at one time ac- cused him of betting. This Uncle Mose “ neither confirmed nor denied. He was not ashamed of his connection with the cock- pit. ever is. He did not Scheu that the Reverend Bung was fair in his denunciation of the sport and he was loaded up with a line of argument to combat him at the proper moment. That moment had _ evidently arrived. He braced himself and ambled over to the fence, looking sheepish but determined. The Reverend Epaminondas lost no time. “Br’er Moses,” he sternly began, “your all ’er named arter a mighty holy man, an’ lots am expected ob yo’. Dis ungodly busi- ness ‘er fightin’ roosters is shorely bringing our church inter disgrace.” “Nossir. Yo’ wrong, Br’ er Bung,” the old man replied. ‘‘Me an’ de rooster wasn’ er fightin’. He fit some, but I was jess tryin’ to pacificate him.” ~ “Done ’quivocate, Br’er Moses,” said the uncompromising parson. ‘‘Dese carr’in’s on bring shame an’ disgrace on our church. I ain’t posed to harmless spote, yo’ know dat. I loves de woods an fiel’s—I loves de stream an’ all de beauties ob de out-door worl’. I loves Nature an’ all her pastimes, but dis business er puttin’ two roosters togedder, and er makin dem peck one anod- der till dey is kilt is crool an’ onhuman.”’ “But, Br’er Bung,” the deacon objected, “s’posen dey want ter peck one anodder?” “Tone make no difference.. S’posen Cain wanter kill Abel? Is dat any reason he do hit?” “Sholy—sholy, parson, you talk’n’ for me now. S’posen Abel want ter take a chance er bein’ kilt? Whar yo’ goin’?” he whipped out with lightning rapidity. “Er fishin’. Why? Dem fishes don't 't wanter be caught! “What you got dar? Er bucket er min- ners. Live! Dem minners don’ wanter have yo’ hook ’um frew de back, but yo’ do hit. Yo’ frow ’em in de water, an’ say, ‘Feesh, come ter dinner.’ Yo’ ’vite dem feeshes ter dinner, den you take dem to de table an’ eat dem.” The parson drew his athletic figure to its most majestic height 2% launched his most convincing argumen “Br’er Holland, I cats an’ I sere my- self, but hit’s for food!” No real lover of- the gallant bird- comicbook (E(@)