Adventure Magazine Cover — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

My Adventures with Your Money these women had been in the habit of bathing in milk or in champagne. A tub of milk costs less than $10 and a tub of champagne less than $200, but you could not have bought this kind of publicity for these per- formers at anything like such absurdly low figures if you used the display advertising columns of the newspapers. Nor would the advertising have been nearly so effect- ive. The absurd milk story scored a “‘knockout”? with newspaper readers and earned a great fortune for the actress. PUBLICITY VIA ELINOR GLYN Ae THIS early stage in Rawhide’s his- tory the reigning literary sensation of two continents was “Three Weeks.”’ Noth- ing, reasoned the correspondents, would at- tract more attention to the camp than hav- ing Mrs. Elinor Glynat Rawhide, particularly if she would conduct herself while there in a manner that might challenge the criticism of church members. Sam Newhouse, the multimillionaire mining operator of Utah, famous on two continents as a charming host, especially when celebrities are his guests, was stop- ping at the Fairmount Hotel in San Fran- cisco. Mrs. Glyn was in San Francisco at the same time. Mr. Newhouse and-Ray Baker, a Reno Beau Brummel, clubman, chum of M. H. De Young, owner and edi- tor of the San Francisco Chronicle, and scion of a house that represents the aristocracy of Nevada, were showing Coast hospitality to the distinguished authoress. A message was sent to Mr. Baker reading substantially as follows: ‘Please suggest to Mr. Newhouse and Mrs. Glyn the advis- ability of visiting Rawhide. The lady can get much local color for a new book. If you bag the game, you will be a hero.” Ray was on to his job. Within three days Mrs. Glyn, under escort of Messrs. New- house and Baker, arrived in Rawhide after a thirty-eight-hour j journey by railroad and auto from San Francisco. The party having arrived in camp at dusk, it was suggested that they go to a gambling-house and see a real game of stud poker as played on the desert. They entered a room. Six players were seated around a table. The men were coat- less and grimy. Their unshaven mugs, rough as nutmeg-graters, were twisted into strange grimaces. All of them appeared the 767 worse for liquor. Before each man was piled a mound of ivory chips of various hues, and alongside rested a six-shooter. From the rear trousers’ pocket of every player another gun protruded. Each man wore a belt filled with cartridges. Although an,impromptu sort of game, it was well staged. A man with bloodshot eyes shuffled and riffled the cards. Then he dealt a hand to each. “Bet you $10,000,” loudly declared the first player. “Call that and go you $15,000 better,”’ shouted the second as he pushed a stack of yellows toward the center. “Raise you!” cried two others, almost in unison. Before the jack-pot was played out $300,000 (in chips) had found its way to the center of the table and four men were standing up in their seats in a frenzy of bravado with the muzzles of their guns viciously pointed at one another. There was enough of the lurking devil in the eyes of the belligerents to give the onlookers a nervous shiver. When the gun-play started, Mrs. Glyn and Messrs. Newhouse and Baker took to the ‘‘tall and uncut.” As the door closed and the vanishing forms of the visitors could be seen disap- pearing around the opposite street corner, all of the men in the room pointed their guns heavenward and shot at the ceiling, which was of canvas. The sharp report of the revolver-shots rang through the air. This was followed by hollow groans, cal- culated to freeze the blood of the retreating party, and by a scraping and scuffling sound that conveyed to the imagination a violent struggle between several persons. Fifteen minutes later two stretchers, carrying the ‘‘dead,’’ were taken to the undertaker’s shop. Mrs. Glyn and Mr. Newhouse, with drooped chins, stood by and witnessed the dismal spectacle. Of course, the “‘murder”’ of these two gamblers, during the progress of a card- game for sensationally high stakes and in the presence of the authoress of ‘Three Weeks,”’ made fine front-page newspaper copy. Rawhide suggested itself in every paragraph of the stories as a mining-center that was large enough to attract the atten- tion of a multimillionaire mine magnate of the caliber of Sam Newhouse and of an COmiclbook (©