Adventure Magazine Cover — page 107: what you’re looking at

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

The House of the Broken Poinard but Smithworth only laughed and laughed. Sweet mirth, se#or, ringing and soft, as a man Jaughs with his sweetheart. But it was a prophecy of punishment; even the most dull of the crowd felt it—felt that presently the great man would hurt the little one. But he was not without courage of a sort, that rat, for even his kind will fight boldly at times. His tongue was his only weapon, and a cutting one. After a little space he named the miner a most unspeakable thing—trepeated it over and over. My friend’s eyes became very small-pupiled, and he closed them a little after the fashion of one who looks against a light. Not a word did Smithworth say, ever. Just laughed and laughed; for a minute I thought perhaps he would overlook the name the rat called him, although it is an insult few of your countrymen will stand in anger. ‘The room ‘was very, very quiet, so that I could hear the little waves lapping against the old hull; hear the rat-man’s hard breath- ing. For he too was silent, thinking. ‘Then his foul mouth opened wide, and he darted his head at Smithworth’s right wrist to bite. He met the point of the poniard, but it only scratched his forehead. Then began the punishment—punishment for the in- famy of his game, his murderous thrust with the little beauty, bis vituperation. Punished him, did the miner, with one tremendous twist of the arm which held the poniard, ‘so that there was a-dry little sound within the bones, and the arm coiled up as a rope is twisted. Yes! he had snapped the arm at the elbow, simply with the strength of his hand on the man’s wrist! Very bad treatment, sefor, but he was a very bad man. Yet I shrank back, and so did all the other watchers. We were like the little runner-bird looking at a rattle- snake, too weak to move. Smithworth dropped the wrist—the yel- low rat-teeth ground, and the black little man gasped one very great dry sob. But he was of a little courage, and his tongue was not yet stilled, and his eyes ever sought the poniard which lay on the table where it had fallen from his powerless hand. Then the man of the golden beard changed his hold on the hand with the up- turned card, so that by only the fingers he held it to the table. Exactly on the palm lay the ace of clubs. He picked up the poniard, did Smithworth, and played with 93 it—and laughed. Always that horrible sweet laughter! I thimk the black man knew what was coming, for he strove again to draw his fingers from that iron grip. Futile! The poniard swung high, poised at the very end of the great arm’s reach, so high that not another man there could have touched it; poised as an axeman holds his tool for a fraction of a second before it strikes the wood. Poised—then drove downward with the speed of a falling stone. Straight it went through the pip of that ace of clubs, straight through the claw- fingered, lean-palmed hand beneath the card, and even through the thick table top of hardwood. God! I have seen many bleed and die, but I have not seen suffering like that of the rat-faced man whose one arm was broken and whose other hand was pinned down. Only once he made a sound—just as the poniard bit through his hand and ground against his bones. The sevor is a horseman; he has heard a horse scream when death gnawed at his vitals. There is no more horrible sound, he will admit. Like that, just like that, the gambler screamed. We stood back, sefior, you will believe that we stood back. There are things which are not pleasant, even to a man who is hard with the hardest, and it was no meek company which was there. But Smithworth did not stand back. He laughed, and held his hands on his hips, as one who watches a most agreeable sight. But, it was not agreeable! That laugh was . Well, a vast horde of little devils plunging white hot tridents into a sinner’s flesh, and laugh- ing. They would laugh shrilly, I thik, as children at times may laugh, but the miner laughed low and sweetly. Yet it was the same, the very same, to hear. it may well have been minutes that the rat crouched there, helpless and pinioned. Then he gasped, like two dry sticks squeak- ing against each other, and lunged his body ~ back against the knife. to break off the point, I think. But he only moved the great table a little way. Smithworth sat on the edge of it, seftor, to hold it for him! And laughed! Once there was deathly silence, as the player of the three cards crouched over the table, peering insanely at the face of my COMICoOo® S perhaps the sefior can imagine It was his purpose’ — So” (C@