Adventure Magazine Cover, December 10, 1922 — page 72: what you’re looking at

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

66 along the railway. Defeat that for us— lead us to all that loot—and we will follow you from here to the sea and plunder Calicut and give you all the richest gems in the city!” That was short notice. The stars were already paling. A considerable murmur of applause greeted the last speaker, and be- fore Mahommed Babar could reply another runner came, announcing that Moplahs to the north and westward wanted to know at what hour the attack on the railway repair- ing party should begin. He was answered in chorus. ‘An hour after dawn! Mahommed Babar will lead us then or sooner!’’ Somebody hustled the messenger out of the light-zone and sent him away on the run to deliver his answer. Other men by the bivouack fires began passing the word along, and the enthusiasm leaped from fire to fire until the whole clearing roared the news, and the men in the outer ring of Mahommed Babar’s circle smiled. Another word began passing from lip to lip among the shadows: “Now we shall see! He says he will be with us to the end. They say he will run from real danger. We shall know within an hour or two.” That was such obviously good leverage that the inner circle caught it up and used it. “Now deeds may answer words and all will know that you are not paid by the enemy to save their lives and property!” There was nothing indecisive in his an- swer. He drew his saber, with a jerk of the wrist that made the fine steel thrum. “It is good!” he answered. “Ye shall have your way! An hour after dawn I will lead against this British force—and by the holy blood of martyrs ye shall rub your noses into the worst of it! I will pistol the man who flinches! Headmen!—jemadars!— join your parties—inspect weapons—see the men are fed—be ready!” In a moment he was almost alone by the fire, standing, staring rather gloomily in front of him, angry because he knew he was being forced into a mistake, yet seeing no way out of it. True, he might snatch a vic- tory, but it would be costly and worth nothing. If he could only hold them back he knew he could accomplish something worth while, at almost no cost in life at all. Well, there was nothing else for it; he must establish his reputation, on which authority Adventure must rest. He was turning to eat the food that a servant brought when another mes- senger arrived. “A sahib comes!” 3 “A sahib? What-sahib? You are crazy!” But the sahib, walking swiftly and fol- lowed by a weary mullah, arrived almost as soon as the messenger. “Don’t shoot, Mahommed Babar!” said the sahib’s good-humored voice. “I’m Ommony.” CHAPTER XVII “T am a rebel.” . f Bice door of the priests’ chamber in the temple of Podanaram opened suddenly and they thrust a man in so violently that he stumbled and fell over the recumbent body of a soldier, who lay asleep on the stone floor. There were only two cots. One was occupied by Mrs. Wilmshurst. “Is this to be another Black Hole of Calcutta?” she complained. The suggestion was absurd. It was a good, large, airy room for one thing. The sun was already above the trees outside and flooded the room through a large window set high in the wall, through which escape might almost have been possible, for there was no glass—no bars. Only, one did not know what was outside, and the judge was neither active nor adventurous. The sol- diers acquiesced, dog-weary, and knowing what they knew. The judge had lent his cot for a few hours to Linkinyear, who sat up and stared. “Oh, are we to have natives in here?” asked Mrs. Wilmshurst in the identical tone of voice that has made most of the trouble between East and West. The man recovered himself, apologized to the soldier, and faced Mrs. Wilmshurst’s cot, on which she lay clothed, languidly fanning herself. “Pardon the interruption, but they threw me in here,” he explained. “Oh well—if you couldn’t help it, I suppose——”’ “Tt could have helped it all right,” he answered. By that time they were all staring at him— judge, Linkinyear, three privates of the line and Mrs. Wilmshurst—puzzled principally by the excellence of his English. “Oh—beg pardon! I forgot. My name’s King. Traveling incog., that’s all.” comichbook (E)