Adventure Magazine Cover — page 43: what you’re looking at

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

A Pot of Gold Helen’s mother was quite urbane. She was not too warm nor too cold, registering a just appreciation of his feelings as well as a subtle determination that those feelings be suppressed. She chaperoned the session. She could afford to be gracious. won her battle. Arguing, pleading, per- suading, finally commanding; wading through a torrent of tears, she had won her battle. It had saddened her; but from her view-point the result was worth the grief. Stout, exquisitely gowned, gray-haired, keen-eyed, thin-lipped and with face a little hardened with the predatory expres- sion of the social grande dame, she found herself making a re-appraisal of Tom and was more than ever convinced that he wouldn’t do. He looked so roughened! Helen mentioned Pete’s visit and gave a guarded version of it. Tom was flabber- gasted. Helen further informed him that her mother was a small stockholder in the mine. ‘We didn’t know it was yours, though. We didn’t connect it. Mother read an advertisement one day, and then she bought.” “Great Scott!” “Well, it’s all right, isn’t it? Now that we know you're in it we feel even better.” Tom let it go at that. “Tt must be a wonderful country down in the desert,” remarked Helen. ‘Mr. Dol- liver’s descriptions gave me a new idea of it.” Wondering just how much damage Pete had done, Tom gave a sketchy outline of the gaunt desert lands around Escalante. The visit finally neared its end. The mother stayed glued to her chair. It was eminently right and proper, but Tom was human enough to want her ‘elsewhere. It came by accident. Some delivery person in the rear called for her; and the maid was out. The mother excused herself, first bestowing a sharp glance upon her daughter. There was a moment of silence. Helen seemed to be contemplating a carved black dragon crawling up a pedestal under a massive vase. Tom watched the delicate lights and shadows on her face. But time was fleeting. He forced him- self to ask a question he hated. “‘When will the wedding be?” “In June.” She hesitated. 3 She had ~ “Richard wanted it sooner, but mother will not allow it. She wants me to enjoy all the engagement privileges. It’s a con- tinuous parade.” “Don’t you like it?” “Ye-es. Any girl does. things seem—seem stuffy.” There was another silence. ) “Sometimes I go on the long road down the Peninsula, or on the mountaintop with the twisted oak, or on the trail by the cliff where the ocean rolls in——” “I know. You should have been an ex- plorer or something. Do you remember the time you chased the rainbow’s end, cross- country, till your horse almost gave out?”’ ‘“‘And we found a hornet’s nest where the pot of gold ought to be?” Her eyes were moist as she smiled. “And you jumped into the ocean? And I dived after you? And you could swim as well as I could?” But sometimes “And we walked six miles in wet clothing?” “Enough!” pleaded Tom. “Let’s stop it, Helen. I’ve been remembering things too much myself.” There was a long pause while she gazed at the floor absently. Then she looked up. “You seem worried. What’s the trouble? Is it the mine?” “My share of it, yes. I found a hornet’s nest where the pot of gold ought to be.” ‘And is there no gold there?” “Plenty. Stacks of it. I’m just trying to figure some way to eliminate the hornets.” She appraised him frankly. “T can see it’s been a strain. It shows on your face, Tom. You look more dangerous than you used to. Sterner.” ‘Had to be.” “And Richard Wentworth is in your company,” she said irrelevantly. “Yes. It’s the one saving element to the - whole business.’”’ He crossed the splendid rug between them and stood over her. “T like Wentworth,” he blurted. glad it’s a man like that.” “His first wife adored him.” “Probably,” winced Tom. He changed the subject. When Helen’s mother returned he was almost relieved. The tension was getting too great. After he had left Helen was thoughtful. “‘Tom’s worried. Hemust be ina terrible “Pm COmiclbook a ©