Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 190: what you’re looking at

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

184 test can’t come until the magazine is actually issued three times instead of two. But if we did not feel we could meet that test we'd be very foolish to make the attempt, for we would lose by it if quality were not maintained. Since we are willing to venture the magazine’s financial interests on our very thoroughly considered judg- ment on this point, we feel justified in asking you to venture your interests as readers on our judgment. We are not infallible, but said judgment is the best we have and we feel secure in it. Remember that your interests and ours are the same in this matter. Well, then, three times a month it is. And here’s luck to it. The change goes into effect with the October issues, out in September, and they will appear on the roth, 20th and 30th of the month. As to any change in quality under the new plan, I leave that to your judgment without a worry. I’m not going to make any claims in advance beyond saying that I’m eager to have those three-times-a- month issues go into your hands for ap- praisal. So be on the lookout September 10, Sep- tember 20, September 30, and on the roth, 2oth and 3oth of following months—with due allowance for our short friend February. I’m glad we’re to meet that much oftener around the Camp-Fire. H ERE’S a thirsty sort of talk from a new member of our writers’ brigade who follows Camp-Fire custom and _ introduces himself along with his first story in our magazine: Buffalo, New York. Dear Camp-Fire: Your letter inviting me to join was so fine that I simply had to take it around and show it to all the white-collar guys and the dock- wallopers and the lake sailors that I know in this big fresh-water port of Buffalo. Most of them are readers of Adventure and, consequently of “Camp- Fire.” The congratulations that ensued involved to some degree the accompanying form of fraterni- zation that makes the rough-neck so lovable. There is one fact that I have ascertained in this connec- tion: that is that Mr. Volstead never could be elected president-of a dockwallopers’ or a lake sailcrs’ organization. é Now I am back banging my typewriter and feeling ine. WELL, as you express a wish to learn what kind of a bird I am, I may as well come across with the goods, I have not hunted the tiger or the an- Adventure thropophagus in their native haunts, but I have bagged a few ideas about men in this world, and that’s what I’ve been after. I was hatched in a little burg called Trenton, Canada, on the shores of the Bay of Quinte, which is an arm of Lake Ontario situate almost opposite the town of Rochester, New York. From the harp part of me came a natural appreciation of the beauties of poteen. The lime-juicer end of me con- tributed a perfectly natural regard for ale and stout. The New York State Dutch part of me has always tried to keep peace between the other two scrapping elements; but even from the estimable Knickerbocker, I must make the sorrowful deduc- tion, descended the proclivity toward beer and schnapps that I have always betrayed. AS A youth I was so lazy that I certainly would not have hiked far from the family porridge- pot had it not been for a consuming curiosity to ac- quaint myself with the various brewed, fermented and distilled beverages that delectate the nations of the Earth. Accordingly I may as well state frankly that to Mr. J. Barleycorn I am indebted for my - wandering tendencies and, therefore, for such ad- ventures as I have had. These have been accruing over such a period of years (I am an old bird—forty years old come next October) that I couldn’t even start to catalog them in detail. In a general way, I will state that I have soldiered, sailed (salt water and Great Lakes), railroaded, hoboed, lumbered, dock-walloped, gandy-danced, etc. OF LATE years I have been much in the society of the rough-neck. Now the rough-neck and the white-collar guy have at least one thing in com- mon—they are certainly both human beings. I ap- preciate the good points of both and it is a toss-up among which class of them I have lived the greater part of my life. There is just enough hereditary ani- mosity;between the two to make them good friends after they learn each other. I hope the harp and lime-juice parts of me will soon sign an armistice so I can settle down. It seems to be more difficult for them to get together than the white-collar guy and the rough-neck. HE story-writing bug has been itching me for thirty years. I haven’t been able to squelch him yet. Maybe some day I'll get old enough and have sense enough to train him into a regular specimen. Outside of this bug that I have I consider myself mostly human, like anybody else. I steep in a bed, go to bed most every night, get up every morning amd eat food and wear clothes every day. I am shamelessly addicted to the oxygen habit. For ex- ercise or recreation I play the piccolo and typewriter, paddle a bark canoe, chop down trees—any old thing. My personal idiosyncrasies include shav- ing my own face and smoking my own cigars. Likewise, occasionally, when opportunity offers, I sometimes—but I'd best be careful. These be dangcrous days. Hoping to get better acquainted and at the same time acknowledging my _ indebtedness to Camp-Fire for many interesting hours in the past—_MAaAx BONTER. CloOOKKS 5}