Adventure Magazine Cover — page 27: what you’re looking at

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

The Great Todescan’s Secret Thrust “Last night! Plague on thee, Dick!” he went on banteringly as he marked the other’s enigmatic smile, “‘but thou wast in monstrous haste! Well—come. ’Tis fair time to go crack a quart for a morning draft; or so at least ’twould be in London. To- descan?” he chuckled. thee, Dick. But come.” Arm in arm they made their way to the nearest tavern; and there, seated at a re- tired table, with a stoup of warm wine and a white loaf between them, resumed con- verse. “’ T'was venturesome of thee, Dick, to come seeking knowledge so far,” quoth Beckett. “You came as far, methinks,” was the good-humored retort. Dick Wyatt had never felt himself a match for his rival in words. But at this game of friendly mockery he held to-day the highest card in reserve. “Aye, so,” said the Templar lightly. “But with me the enterprise was less. I have a gift of tongues—and friends in the university. *ITwas easy. But since start you did, ’twas a fault not to have started sooner—I do assure thee,” he added with meaning. ‘TI left on this quest it comes nigh three months since.” And then, with gusto, did he relate the story of a long pilgrimage of fence. Marvel- ous were the names falling sonorously from his tongue; every master mentioned by Cap- tain Strongi’th’arm, and some others to boot. But it was anent his stay in this very city that he waxed most eloquent: Todes- can, traitor or no, had proved the arch- master, the demigod of the blade! ‘Aye, Dick, ’twas pity thou camest not sooner! Canst scarce, now, learn the ‘thun- derbolt of Todescan,’ this invisible sudden death that laughs at plate or gorget. Canst indeed never learn it—save, of course, from me, when the time is ripe.” ‘Save from you, Master Beckett?” ‘Yes, Diccon, save from me. The secret died to-night; Todescan was killed on the walls!” Master Beckett, not unnaturally, attrib- uted to disappointment the silence in which his rival received the news. Dick Wyatt was reflectively rubbing his chin. For one brief instant he had burned to cap, by an obvious, crushing retort, his friend’s ill-concealed exultation. But he now resolutely folded his lips upon his secret—telling himself that, in Beckett’s own phrase, the time was not yet ripe. “T have news for ogt Since they were yet to meet in friendly con- test of skill, he would reserve the story of the momentous duel until the moment of victory—for, of a surety, on the day of trial he would be met again by this thunderbolt of Todescan, and how could he doubt now that he must prove victorious on the lesser as on the greater issue? Assuming all the air of one who knows he has been checkmated, he changed the drift of the talk. Il SOME three months later, on the ‘eS very morning of their return to London, Dick and Master Beckett together sought the Bolt-in-Tun. They passed through its portals—this time with never one of your elaborate tricks of cour- tesy as to precedence, but the taller with his arm on the other’s shoulder—and found the old place humming, as on the day when last they had seen it, with the talk of a death—a death of far other importance even than that of Master Vincent. England’s great Queen had passed away; ill filled was her place by a little, ungainly Scot. The comrades were greeted with a shout. *Twas six months since they had been seen in Ludgate. Queries assailed them on every side; but, by tacit agreement, they kept their own counsel. ‘True Englishmen, whose prowess was so soon to be tested in loyal public contest, they had no mind for boast- ing of knowledge acquired, afterthe fash- ion of your tavern-haunting gull. But, at length, so much leaked out: they had been preparing, each after his own fancy, for the great day of my Lord of Pembroke’s prize- playing, in honor of Saviolo. It was Beckett dropped the information —a trifle loftily, perhaps, from the height of his traveled experience. He thought to impress his stay-at-home friends. The an- nouncement was met, first by silence, in which eyebrows were raised and glances exchanged; then out broke a hubbub—ban- ter, mockery, condolence. Poor lads! these long six months preparing! And here was one who knew, from knowledge certain, that public prize-playing would never more be seen in Merry England! The one who knew (from Whitehall he) spake: His new Majesty loathed swords- men’s shows, and forbade them. He could not look on a blade without shudder. Nay, COMICLOOCkKKS. EO