Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 169: what you’re looking at

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

Tackline’s Adventure have the joke on me, eh? No, no, no, no! Many times I call you ‘My Jerry,’ but eet ees only to make Sefior Teckline—what you call—jealous. Oh, how I long for the hand- some Meester Brady!” “Did you hear that, youse guys,” came 2 whisper fromm under a four-legged wicker table of very fine quality. At this Tackline stepped forward, tilting the table to the back of his head. ‘“Y’m pretty late I guess—and I see you cot cailers—such as they are!”’ And he paused with mock surprize, as he eyed Jerry. Margarita said nothing. She clapped her hand to her breast, caught her breath and with an involuntary sob almost rushed the beweighted Tackline from his feet. he wicker table of that far-famed quality went spinning from his head. But Tack- line didn’t care. He was gasping happily, smothered in the embrace of the impas- sioned Margarita. ‘Oh, my Teckline, my beautiful one, benitissimo mio, eet ees you, only you I longed to see.” ‘Well, by tomorrow you'll probably have to go to Spain to look for him,” Jerry sug- gested gruffly. “For, I’ve seen them tables and chairs before, and 1 happen to know 163 that the chief over in Algeciras ain’t no particular friend of that third-class quarter- master.” ‘Oh, the chief’s all right, restin’ comfort- ably, thank you, spendin’ the night at José’s.” “Come on, what do you mean, at José’s?”’ “Why, on the sidewalk there!” ““ou don’t mean you drunk him under the table, do you?” “No, the table was on my bean before he really had a fair chance to ease under it.” Then, glancing up at the beaming Mar- garita: “Will that guy be here long? If he’s stickin’ around, he might as well get to work. Grab a chair or a table, Jerry, and let’s deal ’em around the Garden.” Jerry assured them he was on his way. So the members of the swimming party busied themselves distributing the furniture. Margarita and ‘Tackline, meanwhile, crept away to the fragrant shadows of the rose garden. Softly, rapturously, Mar- garita sang again the tender love-notes of “Carissima Mia.” Tackline, as he gazed into the glowing eyes of the singer, with a catch in his voice, whispered ardently— “And to think of all the years I been missin’ this,”’ MICLOOKS S|