Adventure Magazine Cover — page 98: what you’re looking at

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

* ‘- <2 t<- et . apr. " r = ee “ rit } PORTS RENE SR Ta whe, VV pte mf J ue By xe UR oe eae ee Le; a ~~ d é Lat Fe te Mt ie) Pe eB PP nh] wh ALS bas weit Ps nes i ea att | of, Fi ed « =x x ~edt gat ~~ ~t. > m7. 4 $4! x ? j IN he = fh, uy) h, te A 4 i i ley v if iy. c 7 y ¢ i yy i, SS aM, y = WN wi 1 | fe Sy RE SS THE? £PIRIT ei aL C7 HAC AL Youngs {> + fF Ss Author of “A Few Will Remember,” “Wiliam Walker, Filibuster,” etc. “tl | OLONEL GOETHALS—gray, y Dy tall, gaunt, khaki-clad—left his 7 9) yellow railroad motorcar stand- 2 )) ing on a spur track at “Pete M’Gill” and picked his way on foot down through Culebra Cut. In his mouth was a King: Bee cigaret he had “grubbed” from the telegraph operator at Paraiso Cabin. He dodged along between loading dirt trains, Star drills, pumps, hoists, cranes, Ewer and, the conglomeration of other machinery’ that was being used by Man in his fight against nature in that yawning chasm, until at last he stood behind the fleet of steam- shovels that were rooting into the toe of - Cucarach slide, an earth glacier of some millions of extra yards of clay. ~ What was ailing that Bucyrus No. 213? Last month she had dug 70,290 yards of soft rock at Gamboa in twenty-six days. That was a record. On one day, the twenty-second of March, 1910, she had loaded 4,823 yards of clay upon Lidger- woods in five hours and twenty minutes. Something was wrong. She wasn’t per- forming smoothly at all, at all. He walked to the side of the steam navvy and climbed ' to her deck. Jim Hall was running the shovel, and a new man was craning her. Jim shut off and dropped his dipper easily to rest and stepped over to confront the colonel. “Where’s Dave?” “Quit this morning, colonel.’ He hitched a thumb up aa the new crane-man and spoke confidentially. $ 96 “That feller don’t seem to get any speed into himself. ~He’s been craning in the ore beds of Minnesota. He’s done killed this —week’s record. I’ve sweated blood all day.” ‘A passing supervisor saw the colonel on the shovel deck and clambered aboard. ““What’s the idea of putting a green man on this record shovel?” “Had to, colonel. Roach didn’t show up this morning. It was that or else——’” “Has he been complaining of anything? Nobody been riding him among you fellows has there?” “Nope. Guess he got his stake made and is putting back home.” The colonel swung down. The shovel began to roar. The colonel looked back for @ moment at the jerky manner in which the 213 was working, smiled, swore and went on down through the cut. At Empire he swung on to a train of load- ed Lidgerwoods that rolled by and at Pedro Miguel he dropped off where his car stood. Soon the ‘‘ Yellow Peril,” as news- paper writers dubbed it, was scurrying along the main line of the P. R. R. to Culebra Village. It was eleven o’clock that night when the light in his office went out. And it was five minutes to nine the next morning, Sunday, when he again entered his office by a side door. A long line of men and women led away from the front door all the way down the hill to the railroad station. At exactly nine-the door swung open and a aye boy stepped out to allow them to ~ = ¢comicbooks (E@)