Adventure Magazine Cover, December 10, 1922 — page 81: what you’re looking at

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

A Fool and His Fiddle “Relative of yours, I reckon?” says the clerk, finally. “You might find out some- thing about him over at the Log Palace dance hall. That’s where Bud used to hang out when he was around town. Just ask for the Smilin’ Kid—he can put you wise if anybody can.”’ Zeb gets directions from the clerk, and five minutes later he’s standin’ in front of the Log Palace. There’s no screens or shades, and Zeb stares through the window and gets his first eye-full of minin’ town high-life. It all looks fearfully wicked and it takes him some time to get his courage worked up, but finally he glances around to make sure that nobody is watching, then he tip-toes through the swingin’ doors and slips back to the picket fence that divides the gambling end from the dance floor. There’s an eight-inch fir log along the top of this fence, and Zeb seats himself to watch the dancers as they swing past. There’s two bars; one in front, facin’ the gamblin’ tables, and one along the side wall of the dance floor. There’s a small stage at the rear, and here a pudgy little man is sawing frantically at a screechy fiddle, while an- other picks at a banjo, and a comely young woman hammers away at an old piano. There’s maybe twenty couples dancing; the girls all wear knee-length skirts, and the men dance with their hats on. Five or six husky miners are strung along Zeb’s log, chaffin’ the dancers as they pass, and Zeb marvels at the cheery, hail-fellow atmos- phere of the place. Accordin’ to all the dope Zeb has on the subject, these people ought to be swearin’, fightin’, staggerin’ around drunk. But there’s nobody drunk, smiles and free and easy banter seems to be the order of the evenin’, and Zeb don’t know just what to make of it. The girls are a bit shy in the length of their skirts, but there’s nothing else to shock him, and it fascinates the boy beyond anything he’s ever seen in all his narrow life. Zeb looks on with shinin’ eyes, and by and by the little gate clicks at his elbow, and a tall young chap steps through and strolls among the dancers. He seems scarcely older than .Zeb himself, but he carries himself so cool and sure and easy- like, that Zeb would pawn his soul for the nerve to carry it off just half as well. He has big, smilin’ brown eyes, shaded by heavy, black brows that meet above the 73 bridge of his nose. His hat, a wide-rimmed Stetson, is set well back on his head; he wears a deep red wine-colored silk shirt, and a plain white bow tie. Zeb admires the way his coat fits around the shoulders, and the white velvet vest just about puts his eye out. Zeb takes note of the tight-fitting, sailor style trousers, and the polished, high-heeled boots, then his glance switches to the heavy gold watch chain that hangs around the young chap’s neck. Altogether he is by far the hand- somest man Zeb has ever laid eyes on, and he forgets everything else and stares like aman gone daft. This was the Smilin’ Kid, as Zeb had guessed from the clerk’s description. The Kid seemed to know everybody, and the dancers shouted a welcome from all parts of the floor. A girl knocked his hat down over his eyes, the men cleaned the cigars from his pockets in a free and easy way that left Zeb starin’ in amazement. Everybody had something to say about the Kid’s fancy clothes, they wanted to know about his ‘bawth,” there was no end to the chaff. ' By and by the music stops, and the dancers surge up to the bar. The Kids called up to the front, and he slips Zeb a sharp glance as he goes by. He’s merely sizin’ Zeb up, of course, but Zeb is a mighty long ways from home, and half-scared any- how, so he reads somethin’ Hostile in the Kid’s eye, and he thinks he’s maybe aimin’ to come back and slug him in the neck, or something like that. Zeb has been tryin’ for quite a spell to work his courage up to the point where he can brace up to the Kid and tell him howdy, but what little sand he had oozed away, right now, and he beats it for the front door. The Kid is behind the front bar, and he smiles when he sees Zeb sneakin’ ‘away. “Have a drink, young fellow,” the Kid calls, with a wide grin. There’s something about the Kid’s smile that someway sort of gets a fellow, and Zeb can’t resist the pull. He steps up to the bar, kind of hesitatin’-like. The Kid sets out a bottle and a glass, Zev stammers and says he don’t drink. “All right,” says the Kid; cheerful-like, “if you don’t drink—that’s your business. I seldom touch it, myself. Want a job?” ‘“Why—yes—if I could find anything,” says Zeb, and he digs up a grin from some- place. cComicbooks (Eo)