Adventure Magazine Cover — page 125: what you’re looking at

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

: Old Joe Breaks Faith and the freighter would have been lost before help could come. It was still and warm for the season— tiny flakes of snow floating through the air. The smoke from the one smokestack of the Thomas J. Hall rose straight upward in a thin, lazy curl. The noises from the boat sounded ominous and heavy in the dead, cold stillness of the miles and miles of ice about them. There was a dull, booming crash occasionally as an ice-floe split in the thaw. The crew hung stolidly over the rail and watched the seemingly endless expanse of ice and listened to the nervous greedy swash- ing of the water in the narrow, black lane between the floes. From the kitchen could be heard the coarse, husky voice of the old woman talking to Mike Clannahan. you and your Old Joe! Didn’t I always tell you that it would bring bad luck to the freighter some day?” ‘A flock of eager, lean birds flew over just before noon and lighted on the near-by ice- floe. Their curious chattering sounded over- loud in the icy stillness. Corney Fitz- simmons cursed with angry impatience and dispersed them with a heavy bolt thrown from the rail. After a silent dinner, during which the clatter of the knives and forks on ironware plates seemed to preclude any conversation, the black gang stayed below in their quarters. There was nothing but ice to see from the rail above. Some one started a morose game of casino. Then Mike Clan- nahan sauntered over and began the first extended conversation of the day. “Just been for a-hearing the secon’ mate talking to the skipper and hears that Old Joe has been picked to make it to Racine and get help. The first mate took him out in the lifeboat this morning and Old Joe swore he’d get there if lie had to swim it or wade it. Well, if any one can get to Racine, Old Joe can.” “Sure Old Joe can. Why, when we was in Buffalo one time I heard Old Joe offer to bet that he could swim the rapids below the big falls.” “Don’ t it beat all how much nerve that man’s got?” ‘“Ain’t afraid of nothin’.’ The dirty pack of a was forgotten while the black gang told renewed stories of Old Joe. They. told them with an eager- ness, a wistfulness that they had never 123 displayed before. They put more curses, more exaggerations, more swagger into their narratives than ever before. But under it all was a curious and feverish restlessness of mien. Waiting is hard on men. The dusk was a strange, sulfur yellow through which the ice gleamed white as the first mate and his crew of three returned with the lifeboat. Tawny, threatening clouds were booming heavily across the descending sky. The skipper, up in the conning-tower watching the progress of the rowboat about the floes; moistened a finger and held it up over his head. There was a touch of wind coming up— from the east. The lapping of the black water against the ice could be heard more distinctly. No flakes of snow could be seen now, and there was a clammy sting to the air. The first mate reported. No —— use. Tried—hadn’t he tried? Dragged the boat over the ice in twenty places trying to find a place to get to the shore. But there wasn’t any. And you couldn’t walk it. No! Man, you should have seen the gaps in it about half-way over! Man couldn’t last five minutes on it. If it got colder, then, maybe. But this wind that’s coming up from the east — The old woman. was in an oilskins, her thatch of red hair almost hiding her face, as she brought mess in to the black gang and set it, all in one bowl, on the table. She turned without a word and went out. But in the doorway she stopped, peered through the dim, yellow light of the one lantern hanging from the ceiling as if she were about to speak. But she said nothing. The uneasy whimpering of the baby, that forlorn creature in its black-streaked dress, could be heard from the kitchen. And in another moment the hoarse voice of the old woman yelling at it. The wind—from the east—was whipping the rigging by nine o’clock and the freighter, in its prison of white, leering ice, was begin- ning to roll from side to side with a slight, unsteady quivering. The waves-were com- ing into the narrow lane between the floes with a steady, monotonous slash. A game of casino had started in the black gang’s quarters and the shuffle of each card could be heard in the room. The monosyl- labic remarks of the players came out with a thick, tense sound. The second mate entered and called out a fireman and two COMMICLOOOKS (C@)