Adventure Magazine Cover — page 136: what you’re looking at

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

700 “Three turns, a down-you-go, and there you be, Effendi!”’ Twilight fell over the Vardar valley, and in less than an hour the evening fog was so impenetrable that the driver could see hardly more of the Effendi than a pair of alcohol-glowing eyeballs. The turnpike was deserted and the Turk was drunk. En- ver Pasha’s guards were nowhere to be seen; it was too raw a night for sentry-watches. “Get up there! Get up! Just a little while longer, brother!’ the charcoalman yelled to his donkey, and before Selim could open his eyes the carriage had turned to the left from the Tetino road and was creaking down a lane across muddy pastures and ricefields and past the bog-marshes of the Vardar River. The mismated team had some trouble in pulling the carriage in con- cord. A mudhole that almost upset the car- riage roused the drunken Turk, and he yell- ed at the peasant: “Hey there, you, Pll blow out your brains! How is it—far to Tetino?”’ “One more turn, the down-you-go, and there you'll lie, Effendi.” The Moslem grunted and relapsed into taciturnity. ; “Cheer up, my donkey, cheer up, my brother!”’ the driver called to his donkey. Except for an occasional nasal grunt, the gagged schoolmaster on the donkey’s back called no attention to his location. Pretty soon the loose-jointed carriage began pat- tering down a rather steep incline. Through the fog the brandy-dimmed orbs of Selim Effendi saw a flash of water some hundred elbow-lengths below. “Look out there!” he yelled. ‘‘Down _ there, you, I’ll blow out your brains! See how it flickers! What’s that—hidden treas- ure-lights?”’ “Hidden frogs’ eyes!” the driver laughed back. “That’s the ‘down-you-go’ I was talking about.” “Tt didn’t shine that way to me this morn- ing when I came from Tetino—Tetino— how—is it far to Tetino?”’ ‘Don’t suppose it did. Get up, my don- key! Cheer up, my brother, we’re almost there!” and the peasant lashed the rice- merchant’s mule. The charcoalman’s donkey did not seem to like his comrade’s company. As a result, the improvised team had no definite policy in their work. ‘Get up there!” bellowed the driver. Adventure Splash-splash went the team, and the car- riage seemed to sink all of a sudden into a quicksand quagmire. “Look out, you charcoal devil! Are you bogging me? I'll blow out your brains for you!” and the intoxicated Turk jammed the empty bottle against the peasant’s neck. “Is this Tetino—or Vardar River?” ‘Both are pretty close, Effendi, but this is just a mud-pool. Haw there!” For some little time the driver busied him- self with the carriage wheels; hammering at one in particular; then he jumped to his seat again, lashed the mule savagely and let go. The team plunged ahead and the car- riage sailed a thousand elbow-lengths into the fen. Then suddenly, without any warning whatever, something snapped. ‘The left front wheel splashed into the marsh, the rig lost equilibrium, and the Turk yawped: “Hey, you charcoal devil!” “There we are, my donkey! Here we are, my brother!” the driver yelled, and there was a new ring in his voice. He jumped on to the carriage-pole, cursing and shouting in turns, but not for very long. The peasant with the mud-bespattered face and the colorless blinking eyes had unhar- nessed the team, mounted the rice-mer- chant’s mule and was leading away his own donkey with the human baggage loaded thereon before the inebriate could realize what was happening. The carriage began filling up with clam- my, creepy fen-mire that gripped Selim’s feet in an icy clutch and shook him from his brandy-stupor. The Moslem leaped from his seat with an oath and aimed his empty wine-bottle at the dark figures in the mist. But empty bottles do not pop. “Cool your head, Effendi! Cool your head and warm your feet!’”’ The voice was a little way off to the left, and it was no longer Payak dialect that the charcoalman spoke, but pure Bulgarian, the Bulgarian of Selim’s two messages. ‘‘You are half- an-hour’s swim from dry land, and another two hours’ walk from a living soul after we are gone. It is almost freezing now, Ef- fendi, but the Evil One doesn’t bother folks in cold weather!”’ “Hey there, you charcoalman! grease the rope for this!”’ “Don’t slander the trade, Selim. I ama priest by training, a revolutionist by faith, You'll Connicoookxs (C@