Adventure Magazine Cover — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

Topale the Thunderstorm , 7 are heavier than those at home, and——” “And you haven’t paddled for a long time and your hands are out of training,” Senhor Tom nodded. ‘‘You’re forgiven. And you're a good sport to try to hold up your end, I’ll say—and a good paddler besides. Where did you learn to push a canoe?” “Oh, I spent several Summers in girls’ camps when I was in school. And I havea couple of big brothers who are quite active outdoor men: one played end on the Prince- ton football team and sprinted for the track. team, and the other stroked the Yale crew in his senior year. We were always doing stunts when we were youngsters—I was a perfect tomboy myself in those days.” ‘“‘Ah, that explains a lot,” the blond man declared. ‘‘If all girls had a couple of regu- lar fellows for brothers maybe they’d be more human. As it is, most of ’em are bum sports—either touch-me-nots or kiss-me- quicks, and ready to throw a fit if they have to do any real work.”’ She smiled again, but it was a mischie- vous smile this time. “And that, perhaps, yourself in the jungle?”’ “Huh? Mer ‘Stricken to the heart, he sought the sighing solitudes to forget?’ Not Tom Mack, my lady. I’m here be- cause I don’t like starched collars and sub- ways and fat-headed office tyrants and the rest of the stuff the city slaves have to stand for. That’s all they are—slaves! Slaves to their bosses—slaves to business— slaves to pork-barrel politicians—slaves to selfish wives—bah! Ninety-nine per cent. of the men up home make me sick, and as for the women “Grrr! Woof-woof!” she mocked. ‘‘Pe- dro and Lourengco, does he bite? His eyes are growing red, and I’m terribly scared.” ‘“‘Have no fear, senhorita,”’’ my handsome partner laughed. ‘‘We are watching him, and when he begins to froth we shall knock him in the head.” ‘“‘And you’ll have some job doing it, my merry men,” Senhor Tom grinned. ‘Beg pardon for starting an oration, Miss Mar- shall. But I assure you I’m no lovesick calf driven from home by a hopeless pas- sion—or by anything else, for that matter. Old Patrick Henry said it. ‘Give me lib- erty or give me death.’ Them’s my senti- ments, and the only sentiments I’ve got. Let’s go.” He rose, looked at both of those puzzling is why you bury ‘town. streams, drew a coin from his pocket, and glanced inquiringly at us. We nodded. “Heads to the right, tails to the left,” he said, and flipped the silver disc. I caught it. “We go to the right,” I told him, hand- ing back the coin. ‘That is where chance directs us.”’ “Right’s right,” he answered. His eyes went again to the girl, who was watching him with an amused expression. ‘‘Now, Miss Marshall, we’ll just open those blis- ters of yours and then bandage your hands. After that you'll ride at leisure for the rest of the day.” “But I’m going to paddle,” she protested. “And ruin your hands completely. No, you'll rest them until tomorrow—or later.” Her chin rose again. It was very clear that she had no intention of riding in idle- ness. But nothing more was said until the hands were bandaged. Then, after a keen look into her stubborn ‘face, Senhor Tom spoke again in a cool but determined tone. “With all due respect, Miss Marshall, I must remind you that I am the captain of my own canoe. The captain of any craft is the supreme authority on questions of the handling of that craft. I hereby order Tom Mack to paddle this canoe unaided until sundown or thereabouts. That is final.” His eyes twinkled a little as he spoke, but his jaw was firm. They stood for a minute looking steadily at each’ other. Then she smiled again. “‘Aye, aye, sir,” she answered. And she stepped into her place at the bow and set- tled herself comfortably—with her back to him. We grinned at him, got into our own dugout, and shoved off along the niguemand stream. + ALL through the afternoon we swung steadily down that winding *"* creek. And all the time there grew on me a feeling that we went wrong. Why I felt so I can not say. It was not because the stream seemed to bear more and more to the northeast—we had no way of knowing just where Viciado lay, for we were passing through an unmapped region and might be heading directly toward the There was no reason at all for my misgiving, except this: Somehow, when a man has roved much in the wilderness, he comes to feel that certain ways are the best to travel, even if he can not explain why. Perhaps it is the sense of direction which the Eomichoo <S' (EO)