Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 61: what you’re looking at

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

the Picture “You know perfectly well there’s some- thing wrong with Gibbins, so don’t try to blind my eye,” I retorted. ‘‘He comes in here and nobody speaks'to him. I’ve tried to find out something about this business before, but everybody brails up their lip when I mention his name, or changes the subject. And what was that paper they were all looking at—the paper that Gibbins grabbed up and pocketed?”’ “Four and six is ten, carry the one and set down the naught,” droned Fearoyd, and shook his pencil irritably, wholly dis- regarding what I had said. “That’s the picture he draws,” said a voice behind my left shoulder, and I turned to see a thin little man in a chair—a man whose name I didn’t know; but I recog- nized him as a runner for a ship-chandler, who had a shop on the Mole. Thelittle man wore glasses and a white collar that was badly wilted and he had sparse red- dish hair that matched a wispish little red mustache. “What picture does he draw?”’ I asked. The little man grinned and his face col- ored. He probably wished he hadn’t spoken, for the card-players scowled at him. “Gibbins draws what picture?” I de- manded. “T don’t know—a picture of the coast— somewhere——”’ : “Belay that!’ came a rough voice from the card-table, and though I looked down that way I could not tell who had spoken. The players were all making a point of at- tending closely to their hands. The little man giggled nervously, as if he knew a joke at my expense, and stood up. “T’ll have to be sliding along,”’ he said, and got under way promptly and was out through the door before I realized that he was gone. ‘“Fearoyd,” I began again, “What was that third cook of a Norwegian brig who calls himself a ship-chandler’s runner talk- ing about? About what Gihbins draws? Is it a confounded secret? If it is, I’ll keep off it, but I’m tired of having all hands and the fiddler’s son run away from me when I try to talk about Gibbins. I’ve been out in these waters two years, and as to this club, I pay my-way init. But I’ll not come near the place if I can’t ask an honest question and get an honest answer to——”’ “Wilks, I don’t want to talk about it,” 5I said Fearoyd, and gave me a look which I knew to be cautionary. “Very well, then,” I said crossly, threw my feet up on the chair again and stuck the newspaper up before me to let them all know they could go to the in a half less three at high water. And to my great surprize within ten minutes the card-play- ers were gone, and Fearoyd and myself had the place alone. Fearoyd had by this time finished his confounded figuring and was sulking over his glass of San Miguel. “Why did everybody go hard aground with me because I asked about Gibbins?” I enquired, throwing my newspaper away and willing Fearoyd should understand that I was still as mad as a cross-eyed bo’sun’s mate with a boil on his neck. Fearoyd wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in that same slow and lazy fash- ion that has kept him second in a Hong Kong boat for years. “WELL,” he began, looking into his glass to keep off my eye, ‘‘we’re a all sorry for him and we don’t like to talk about him—for his own good. He’s getting so that he won’t be able to get in- surance if the underwriters’ agents get the truth about what’s going on. It’s not for Nie He shut up again on the pretext that the China boy came drifting over our way with a rag to look after some of the brightwork. “Oh, go on, Fearoyd,” I scolded. ‘It’s the likes of you that keeps me asking ques- tions, when if I knew what it was all about I could keep still and not be driving folks away from the club. I’m not an under- writer and I know how to keep my jib close- hauled about any man’s ill-luck.” “It’s because Gibbins has had five mates, more or less, in the last six months, for one thing,” Fearoyd began again. ‘‘They like him well enough as master, but he gives them the creeps. The trouble is they think he’s gone off his head. He’s always draw- ing that picture of his.” ‘What picture?” = ‘Just some palm-trees and a rock on a shore-line. That was one of ’em they were all looking at when Gibbins came in. Sol- lars, his last mate—just quit him—left it here.” ‘What damage does it do a man to draw a picture of some palm-trees and a rock on a shore-line?” I asked. DOOLK C@