Adventure Magazine Cover, December 10, 1922 — page 175: what you’re looking at

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

Seveh Fools He tried to get the loop off. Jones kept the line taut. But there was merit in what the man said. Somebody was pretty sure to get hurt. Then the argument was settled by Jack, with his own alpenstock, suddenly knocking Morton-Dyer’s weapon some dis- tance, and Morton-Dyer seeing himself again close to the end of the trip, gave in again. “T’ll surrender,” he said. ‘‘Let up ‘on this —— rope! It’s galling my neck.” They discussed briefly what should be done, and on Jones’ urgence to be fair, and Morton-Dyer’s pleas, it was decided to tie the line securely around Morton-Dyer’s neck and let him take the lead. This was done, the sailor knotting the rope cleverly, and presently they were filing on, Morton- Dyer in the lead and Fags at the rear, coughing. The going was decidedly up-hill. Every step was up and up. They panted, their legs ached. Cotton observed that he would give freely a handful of nuggets for a place to take three level steps. After a time of great effort they rested. Fags was behind and he labored up to them before he would rest. The lad was very weary and for the first time he did not light a cigaret. He put two packages from the carton, that he had kept watchfully by him, into his canvas pack sack and wrapped the carton and some of his sandwiches in his mackinaw. The bun- dle he laid aside. “Get ’em later,” he said hackingly. “‘No use to carry extra stuff.” It was a man’s hike, the way they went after it, no doubt of that. The rocks were loose and sharp, the mountainside steep, and it was up, up, up until thigh muscles seemed dulled. Even without his mackinaw Fags failed to keep up with them, and each time he caught up they were almost ready to go on. “You'll just about stop here,” said Morton-Dyer. “Can’t lose a second on your account.” “Stop!” screamed Fags over, or out of, his coughing. ‘Lose my share o’ that gold? You go to , you skunk!” “You can’t go much farther.” “ll be there with the head man!” snarled Fags feebly. ‘My share of them nuggets—soft beds and reg’lar meals, and no more tearing around like this. I’m fond of an easy berth, I am.” They laughed at him as they rose to go on. “Stay with it, kid,’”’ said Logical Jones, 169 “and when your money’s gone I'll give you a job on a polo pony ranch I’m seeing.” When they got out of hearing of Fags this time they agreed that they would go on and not wait for him more, as they were far enough now from the Summer camp so that if he went back and told, the four could not be beaten to the top, even by the best mountaineer. At the next rest they rose to go as soon as he staggered up. He begged them to wait, to give him a minute, but they started selfishly on. Morton-Dyer called that they could not fool with him any longer. Fags renewed his efforts. He threw all that was left of himself into the attempt to keep up with them. He began to un- burden, strewing along their trail cigarets, matches, raisins, chocolate bars, everything but his packsack that was to carry gold nuggets in. But try his best he could not keep up with the strong men. Once Logical Jones paused as if to wait, but went on in a moment. When again the four rested, with Fags far back, Jack speculated that very likely Fags would be one of the other two victims. He was a bit eager for the others to side with him. The circumstances gaye him three chances out of four rather than out of five. ‘With him out,” said he, “‘only one of us is left for violence.” “T wouldn’t want to make all this climb and then suffer violence,” said Cotton. “Hate to have the luck of a lousy cat,” filled out Jack. “Live all Winter and kick the bucket in the Spring. But one of us has got to go.” “You nut!” jeered Jones. “Nut! They’s laws, I tell you, laws in- visible. Listen here, I’ll show you. Here, I gather up five little stones, and here’s a big flat rock with a: basin and stale water in the middle. I’ll name these pebbles after us. I'll mark ’em.” The seafaring man, with fingers that trembled a little, found a nail in his capa- cious pockets and scratched initials on the pebbles—F for Fags, and J for Jones, and Ja for Jack, and letters for the other two. “Now,” said he, standing over the pool which was no broader than his two hands, “T’ll throw these stones up and those that go in the water will be the ones that don’t go back down this mountain, and the ones that stay out of the pool, they are the lucky men.” ‘Sure sign?’ mocked Jones. Eomicbooks (Eo)