Adventure Magazine Cover — page 174: what you’re looking at

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

° he . Ge G A £ whe > = - 1, Set Ue ‘4 % ee : ; ‘ . oe) Y AY WA « 7S : m2 NP 4 Xi . xX 5 Oe SR f wi Bad . AE Lb SQ 7M > orl ae Fé “sf 7 . 9 yA DN 24 u n“w—m~ es , : af : ’ ER a5, Se ae AN ‘ . »l ast ‘ 7. os “VS 4 tes ™ . 2 iy TONY o . 5 : : H xf — 6 y 3 * A\ fo ‘i € ie ‘ gy 52 wl e si pee a . Le NEO. anes Author of “Scrambled Ducklings,” ‘A Bit of a Sphit,” ete. Come get to your stable All you that are able, And water your horses And give them some corn, For if you don’t do it ~ The colonel’ll know it, And then you will rue it As sure as you’re born. me/HE tired infantrymen who lay Mo) shivering in their thin blankets ont along San Pedro Ridge sprang SJ to life in a flash at the call of the artillery bugle at the end of the camp. They belonged to the provisional brigade that had marched from Manila the night before, and after a month spent in the old Spanish cuartels were again in the field ready for another tour of hiking and fight- ing. Already the cooks had great cans of steaming coffee waiting to wash down the sandwiches of coarse bread and corned “willy” lying in heaps on outstretched ponchos in front of the company fires. Below the ridge lay the town of San Pedro Macati, the Pasig river, like a silver ribbon, binding the edge of its principal street. In the distance the permanent camp of the Twelfth Infantry, its tents gleaming in the rays of the rising sun, cut sharply against the sky line. The ravenous soldiers downed the sand- wiches, gulped the steaming coffee and be- gan to roll blankets and shelter-halves. It was a dry camp, the water for the coffee being packed from the river late the night before. In the short interval before starting time the wits of the “A”? Company began their usual morning drive on old Paddy Miles, the company cook. Paddy’s real name was Peter Himmelhaver and he had more years of army service to his credit than the majority of the company had months. Pug Carroll began the ragging, shouting in a singsong voice: “Old Paddy Miles is a fighting man, Fights for the dollars whenever he can, Then buys booze and gets in a jam, But ——” Pug dodged the billet of wood flung from Paddy’s hand. It whizzed past his ear, landing ker-plunk on the tightly stretched trousers of the regimental ser- geant-major who was bending over his haver- sack. As if by magic, Company A, yelling and roaring a moment before, was silent as a tomb; but oh! how that pursy, puffed up non-com. did rave, and rave as he would, it was all to no purpose. No one would “peach,” and Old Paddy bending over his kettles and pans, was not 168 GCOMIGIOO S (C@