Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 113: what you’re looking at

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

The Gold Cure sands but through the chilly night the pil- grims departed. “It ain’t fair,” soliloquized Mr. Peters. “T couldn’t buy a single coconut to take home to my pore young ones!”’ Four blocks away as the Sons of Oolah were passing the Maddox House, a solitary figure hurried out and motioned to them. Mr. Gilfish leaned over the Brandagee car. ‘“Say—” he quavered, “I went around behind the church an’ plugged ’em. Three was sour, and twenty-one of ’em had milk— jest milk! Hey, kunnel, did you get yours?” “TI did, seh. But—milk? Do I under- stand you to say—coconut milk?P”’ “Yes, seh! Milk—that’s what every 9 durned Son of Oolah in this crowd has bought, too! Right back of the church lot is a pile of busted coconuts that smells like a hill-billy still after Zeb Peters has raided it. . ‘Zeb and Dick Tuttle busted every one 103 of your loaded nuts, kunnel, and then they marked all the others and peddled ’em to us at a bigger price than I’d pay f’r a durned coconut if I was in the middle of the Sahara desert and only one nut in sight!’ The Sons of Oolah looked at Mr. Gilfish in silence. Then Mr. Pink Garford re- marked that it was a grand night for stars but most of them seemed to be in the Milky Way. Major Huckaby added that he thought the dry spell would continue. Senator Yancey opined that the coconut market was upside down and backward. Judge Brandagee said he was willing to sell short—preferably to the Heathen if he knew his address. ‘Pie-fillin’,”” murmured Colonel T. Sam- bola Tunk. ‘‘Seh, we cain’t run the first lodge of Oolah on pie-fillin’! Evenin’, gen- tlemen. Giddap—you, hoss! We'll take a little trot home over the hot sands.” THE GOLD CURE w— W.C. Robertson and oe Gilchrist Brodeur OOZY BILL stirred in his sodden sleep. His red eyelids quivered, his nostrils twitched. After a long, silent stretch, he turned over on his stomach, opened his puffy eyes and carefully parted the tall grasses that screened the river bank. The voices that had disturbed his dream of an ocean of whisky were real voices; they continued now, low and softened by the purr of the slow river. The smell that had tingled in his sleepy nostrils was the scent of a Turkish cigaret. With furtive, eager caution Boozy Bill peered between the stems of the tall grass. He could look right down the steep sandy bank upon the lazy water of the Guayappe. A group of brown native women were wash- ing gold from the edge of a bar, chattering continuously as they worked. On a rock half-wet by the ripples sat a short, slender man, dressed like a dandy, watching the cComicloooks C@