Adventure Magazine Cover, December 10, 1922 — page 86: what you’re looking at

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

80 “Do you - think you could get Miss Thomas to take this?” he asks the Kid. The Kid glances up and smiles. “No-o-o,” he says, ‘‘not all of it. Half, maybe. Yes, I think I can persuade her that she’s entitled to half of it, anyhow.” “All right,” says Zeb. “I’ll leave it here. See what you can do.” . “How about tomorrow night—or tonight, Imean? Can you play for us?” “Ves,” replies Zeb, “if you want me.” “Sure thing!” says the Kid. ‘‘We want you right along. Dollar an hour from the house, and all the crowd chips in is yours.” > “That’s too much,” Zeb protests. _ “Never mind about that,” says the Kid. “T know who’s getting the best of the deal, and it isn’t Zeb Hollis. And listen, I’m your friend, understand, and if anything goes wrong—anything, mind you, I'll see you through. Some of the toughs around here may try to hand you something. If they do, you’ll let me know, won’t you?” Zeb promises, but when the time comes he takes another course. IN THE early evenin’ of his third day in camp Zeb takes a notion to have a little look around among the other resorts. He has played at the Palace on the odd nights, and talked a lot with Madge, and the more he talks with the bright, wholesome girl, the better he likes her. She seems like an old friend now, and when he strolls into the Silver Bell and comes suddenly face to face with Nig Peets, his mind turns plumb sudden to the girl. Somewhere in his mind there’s a picture takin’ shape, a picture of this greasy beast killin’ the girl’s father, every part of it as plain as if he’d been right there and seen it all himself. Peets stands with his back to the bar, one heel hooked over the foot-rail, both elbows on the bar, hands hangin’ loose and handy by his gun- -butts. The girl’s descrip- tion is still fresh in Zeb’s mind, there’s no chance for a doubt, the man is Nig Peets. Zeb stands and stares—too green to sense the fact that he’s courtin’ Old Man Trouble, right in his den. Peets grins and sizes Zeb up, for a minute, then he steps out and looks Zeb over like he’s maybe a horse and Peets is aimin’ to buy him. He lets on like he’s holdin’ a glass to his eye, and walks around Zeb like an old hen sizin’ up some strange sort of a worm. se oe ta : “Well, well!” says Peets, at last. “If it ain’t my old friend Bill! Just like news from home. When did you leave dear ol’ Missouri? Shake!’ And Peets puts out a dirty paw. Zeb is too dazed to do anything else, so he takes Peets greasy hand, and Peets drags him up to the bar. “Come on and havea drink,” Peets growls, ‘then he half-turns and shouts to the crowd “Come on, fellers, and have a Regular family in the rear. drink on ol! Nig Peets! reunion. Let’s celebrate!” Zeb’s feelin’s is mixed up till he nearly chokes on the words, but he manages to stammer that he don’t drink. “Oh yes, you do!” says Peets. “Every- body drinks on ol’ Nig—when he asks ’em.” The bartender strings out the bottles and glasses along the bar, Peets pours out a big drink for himself and one for Zeb. He still has a good grip on Zeb’s coat collar, and when Zeb pulls back he jerks him, gaspin’ like a fish, against the bar. “Lap her up, young feller!’ Peets barks. “And no back talk! Ive had a lot of patience with you, already, and I’m a-gettin’ peevish. Lap her up!” “T can’t do it!’ Zeb screams, tryin’ des- perate-like to break away. Peets is a powerful cuss, and he slams Zeb against the bar in no time. Then he grabs a glass of liquor and pours it inside of Zeb’s New Jersey standin’ collar. Zeb is plumb desperate by this time, and he pounds away’at Peets with both fists. Peets laughs like a pack-jack, then he grabs an- other glass of booze and dashes it into the boy’s eyes. Plumb blinded by the fiery stuff, and half cryin’ with rage and pain, Zeb can’t do a thing but dig, helpless-like, at his burnin’ eyes. Peets glares around at the crowd, then he trips Zeb to the floor. He grabs a bottle from the bar and empties it into Zeb’s hair and eyes, then he rubs it in, savage-like, with a ham-sized hand. It’s a brutal stunt, and no mistake, and there’s more than one scowlin’ face in the crowd a-lookin’ on. But baitin’ a tender- foot is a time-honored sport, and how far you go with it is admitted to be pretty much a matter of your own notion about it. Furthermore and also, tryin’ to stop a man like Nig Peets means a bad mixup, and everybody knows it. Still further, they know that Peets ain’t GEomichoo “S' (E)