Adventure Magazine Cover — page 56: what you’re looking at

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

50 “They think the devil makes the music— or that I’m a boss devil,” said the man. “And as long as I’ve got this—well, ve got their goats. But they’ve done for Thusby and his men—the lot of *em—and Asama is loose again. It’s him that wanted your head in particular.” “Then I’m not saved by a native, after all,” said Wheaton. “But how are we to escape from the island?” “We!” said the man. “I’m not going. You stick here tiJl morning. The schooner is due back then, and it'll pass close in here. Wave what’s left of your pants to ’em, and they’ll take vou off.” “You not going!” cried Wheaton. “What are you going to do?p”’ “Go back with that black gang of mine.” “But why not come along with me?” The man hesitated before he replied. “Say, matey,” he began, “I’m _ not hankerin’ none for white men—not in these parts anyhow. And seein’s I’ve got you out of a bad jam, you might do a good turn for me.” “Anything!” help you “You just forget about me when you go aboard the schooner, that’s all—nary a word about a white man livin’ with the blacks.” “The sailor!’ whispered Wheaton. man who—seven years a “Sure; I reckon Thusby told you about me,” growled the sailor. “They think the natives got me. Well, if the whites catch me_I’ll stretch a rope. Yes, I killed a man —a human devil of a second mate—that was ina company tramp. That’s why [Il take my chances with the natives. T’ll take exclaimed Wheaton. ‘“‘T’ll “The Adventure the gamble with the blacks. Well, I'll drift back before I’m missed, and they suspect that I rigged it on ’em to git you away.” And he slid toward the lip of the cave. “Wait!” begged Wheaton. “‘You’ve done me a greater service than I can pay you for, and I want to help you. What can I do to help “Keep your mouth shut about me; that’s what, matey.” He let his feet drop over the edge of the cliff, to feel for the stones below. “But I can use influence for you per- haps,’”’ went on Wheaton hastily. “My name is Mortimer Wheaton, of the Univer- sity of California. My home is in San Francisco, and the street ” “Frisco!” exclaimed the sailor. “ ’Fris- co!” and he stared out over the sea that sparkled in the moon-track. “What wouldn’t I give to be tonight at Lotta’s Fountain and see the crowds go down Market, and the light in the clock of the Ferry, and the trolleys buzzin’ up Kearney! Say, matey, as you stand on the corner and look down Third Street, you see a big electric sign with the letters E-A-T-S— that’s Gunboat Joe’s hash-house, and I’d sell a leg to go in there for a plate ‘of beans! So you’re from ’Frisco! So long, matey— lay low till you’ve got the schooner slap abeam of the point o’ rocks.” And the head and shoulders of the white man who had saved Wheaton slipped out of sight below the edge of the cave. The butterfly-hunter heard the rattle of loose stones and leaned out to look down over the brink of the precipice. He saw the figure of the sailor disappear into the jungle. Gomicbook (C@