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

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

NEXT IN. COMMAND by D.E.. Dermody XCEPT in strategic necessity, the | American bluejacket is kept in- formed of what is doing and about to be done. Five minutes after a spluttering spell had ceased in the wireless room of the gunboat Memphis this mes- sage from the Navy Department was posted on the crew’s bulletin board: Commanding Officer U. S. S. Memphis, Trava- ganza Bay, Panama: Proceed immediately Verde- caya, Oronagua. Lie outside. Intercept any armed vessel either revolutionary or Azurpan Gov- ernment attempting to enter. Engage if necessary. The scuttle-butt board of strategy, the galley gossips and the underground savages were gleefully discussing the situation, when the welcome word was passed, “All hands up anchor.” Ghastly indeed must have been the diversion that would not have been welcomed by the crew, if only it led them out of the lonely Panama lagoon they had been surveying for the last two months. As the vessel nosed her way through the new-charted channel of the lagoon, “‘ Ace-of- Spades” Atterly, wardroom cook (in this in- stance cook for all the seven commissioned officers attached to the baby man-of-war), was grating horse-radish at the galley sink, rolling his eyes weirdly, and descanting wildly to the Jap steward and messboys con- cerning the imminent bloody breach that the Memphis was to make in Central American history. In his excitement, reach- ing for horse-radish, he got hold of raw pota- ‘toes, discarded grape-fruit hulls and other undesirable ingredients, which he blindly grated into the pan. The wizen-faced Japanese steward, jab- bering unintelligibly, sprang forward and plucked up a handful of the misappropriated vegetables. “Whadumatta you? Belong muh!” he grunted, pointing a long-nailed finger at his stomach. “Hi-yah!” gloated the cook. ‘Yo’-all yaller boys’ll need stomach when we all goes ag’in them Spiggoty wa’ships! Huc- come you’-all hab veg’tables ub yo’ own?” The Jap’s eyes turned inward and watery. ‘Sig,’ he explained, applying an open palm to the affected region. ‘‘Bime-by my think explose down here.” ‘“‘Egsplode—hi-yah!”’ chuckled the Ace. ““Wait’ll them Spiggoty shells start ’splodin’ in this hyar galley and yo’ all ’ll be proper sick in yo’ in’ards! Hah-ah-yah!” And that was all the thought he gave, at the time, to the Jap and his private vegeta- bles. Ace-of-Spades was not the only one ob- sessed with the battle-lust. The war-witch was weaving in the brain of “‘Lookyhere”’ Lally, seaman, as he emerged later from the forward hatch, like a jack-in-the-box on rusty springs, and sauntered toward the port bridge ladder. On the bridge he re- lieved the man at the wheel with a wo- begone air and a mournful, ‘Looky here, shrimp, what’s the course?” “Steady aport—steady on east-nor’-east 863 C© MICLOOKS (© 5}