Adventure Magazine Cover — page 153: what you’re looking at

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

de oe bat Tus — sr. ° ~% Sian = ~<a) ee =e Cee ee SC A | * - : ONS ot Tone Se Se a " aial : . > =, “$im45 a ~ They Always Run True to Form Dazedly the graybeard rose to a sitting position. Still half-asleep and not under- standing Bertie rose along. For a moment they looked at the host of busily moving - figures as though hypnotized—looked as ‘though going through some strange, awful dream. A foot caught the graybeard fiercely in the back. Startled he yelled and turned. A revolver, six inches from the end of his nose, was pointing at him unflinchingly. “Stand up,” a vicious voice commanded, qualifymg the command with a further furious kick. 3 Stifly the graybeard rose to his feet and stiffly beside him Bertie rose as well,:a re- volver touching the back of his head. “Now put both your hands behind you,” the vicious voice went on. For an instant the old man hesitated and made to argue. The cold barrel of the revolver touched his neck. “Would you rather die now or wait till sundown?” the vicious voice inquired mockingly. “It’s all the same to me.” Frank’s hands went behind and his eyes peered over to his own Kaffirs. They al- ready had their hands tied. Four Kaffirs singled themselves from the surging crowd and came up. Roughly, firmly, methodically they tied both pairs of * hands, then knelt and tightly bound each pair of legs. The first rays of dawn were shooting up behind the hills. In a few minutes the sun would bound up and the world be moving. The cold barrel of the revolver left the gray- beard’s neck and his captor turned him to face him squarely—turned him round and peered closely into his eyes. The eyes of the graybeard bored into eyes set in a face old as his own, but much more wrinkled and haggard. And each pair of eyes knew the other. With a furious kick on the legs and a violent jab the graybeard was thrown heavily and a top-boot crashed into his ribs. “So you’d interfere, would you? Been interfering all the while? Elected yourself into a police force, eh?” The top-boot crashed again and the gray- beard stifled a groan. “Hunting for us to finish us, eh? When _-we’ve finished with you the vultures’ll be too heavy to fly, or ’m a Dutchman.” Quietly the Kaffirs knelt. With deft 147 hands they completely bandaged the eyes of the two prostrate men. “Now roll them into the meshilas and carry them,” the vicious voice directed. - Hour after hour in the blazing sun the Kafhrs plodded patiently along. The meshilas—blankets slung beneath poles— were hot and tight—so tight that the men, sunk deep in them, were bathed in dripping sweat, burning and boiling at one and the same time. Mosquitoes settled on them and bit them furiously, the clinging blankets made it quite impossible to change position in any way. The fierce heat seared their tanned chests and faces till they couldn’t move a muscle. At first the graybeard had angrily asked question after question. A mocking laugh or a snarling curse was the only reply he got. And he lapsed into hopeless silence and simply listened. By listening carefully, he soon found that the horses were being taken along; and by the trend of the hushed conversation he knew that M’Poine and the four Kaffirs also were with them, but whither bound or why never once reached his ears. The rasping and scratching of the grass ceased and the graybeard felt that they had left the open valley. By the angle of the sun it must be noon. Roughly the bearers dropped the meshilas and turned aside to eat; then, finished, on again and still on. At first up, up, up, then down a jagged, broken slope; then round and round and up and down again. The way twisted and turned a thousand times, the bearers jolting the meshilas as they stumbled over rocks and stumps. At times the welcome shade of a belt of trees tempered the baking heat— then again into the sweltering sun. The afternoon wore on. For an hour past the bearers had gone eonsistently up—up and up, twisting and:zigzagging, but always up. The rays of the sun, striking from away over the horizon, told of approaching night. Anxiously the graybeard licked his parched lips and prayed for the cool of darkness. The party came to a halt. Roughly the bearers dropped their mes/ilas and for a while a hum of excited conversation droned along—argument and cursing almost in whispers. Then just as suddenly the meshilas were picked up again and the crowd moved on—on, but in single file. The going became smoother; the jerks and bumps finished; the road was sandy. comichook (E(0)