Adventure Magazine Cover — page 112: what you’re looking at

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

868 at somethin’, and not up here with nothin’ to do but be shot at.” “Is there anybody aboard speaks Spig- goty Spanish?”? Desmond demanded of the world at large. ‘“T can do a little Mex., sir,” a boy from Los Angeles. ‘Then stand by to come and do it when I call you.” volunteered —ihey A HALF hour passed in the silence an of expectancy, by which time the Memphis and the other gunboats were steaming almost beam-abeam but still converging toward the central harbor chan- nel, about three-quarters of a mile apart. Desmond returned to the bridge, calling the Los Angeles boy after him. Ten minutes later the Oronaguans, less than a quarter of a mile away, were hailed by the boy through a megaphone. Three successive hails fi- nally elicited a faint reply. There followed two murky cross-currents of molten Latin word-roots. ‘“‘All I can get out of them is that they can’t savvy my habla,” asserted the boy in reply to Desmond’s anxious inquiries; “but darn ’em, I know they do!” “Da—uh—quit your swearin’!”’ repri- manded Desmond. ‘“Spyles, fire a blank three-pounder!”’ : ' The little rifle barked instantly. Looking through his binoculars, Desmond fumed in undertones. Wild excitement was percepti- ble on board the Central Americans, but re- newed volumes of smoke from their funnels indicated that the warning had only incited them to a fresh burst of speed. Desmond hurried back to the maindeck. ‘“‘Send a six-pounder solid shot across the leader’s bow, Spyles!”’ he shouted angrily. On the word the six-pounder belched, much louder than its predecessor, and a singing shell struck the water a hundred yards ahead of the foremost Oronaguan and a quarter of a mile beyond it, ricocheting on to the lowlands to the northeast. But both vessels held their course and speed. ‘* Another!” snarled Desmond. The shell this time struck directly under the leading ship’s forefeet, its spray mixing indistinguishably with the curling fore- foam. But there was no halting. Desmond’s jaws snapped. ‘‘Who’s the best gun-pointer on the ship?” “IT am, sir,’ calmly asseverated a slender, sleepy-eyed ordinary seaman. Adventure “Train Number One four-inch on that fool’s figurehead and blow it off! Spyles, have the boys stand by for—to break loose! If them blockheads are bent on goin’ in, they’re only waitin’ for justifiable provokin’ to slam us with a double broadside, but there ain’t no halfway place for us to get off atnow. Gun-pointer, take all the time you like aimin’ and fire when you’re ready. At point-blank range like this you ought to be able to wing that yellow eagle easily.” ‘“‘Course I can, sir,” drawled the sleepy- eyed one. With the confident words a thunderous detonation jarred the tubby little gunboat, and the four-inch shell leaped out of the surf a mile away. Incidentally, the gilded eagle was seen to be as extinct as the dodo, not so much as a golden feather remaining to glit- ter in the rays of the sinking sun. Everybody on the Memphis involuntarily shrank back except the helmsman—Looky was too busy—and Desmond, who instead made himself especially conspicuous by mounting a chain bit and flourishing his sword seaward, a bit of theatrical bathos which meant more than a mere attempt at bravado, being sensibly designed to impress the very impressionable people with whom he was playing at cross-purposes. ‘All right, fellows,” he shortly announced, “they ain’t goin’ to fire no salvos in our honor. We might have known the Spig- goties are too foxy to strike back when their Uncle Sam has to give ’em a box on the ear!” Both Oronaguans had stopped almost in their own lengths, the reversed propellers churning the current into froth under their sterns. A gig was lowered on the run from the foremost ship. “‘Jee-whizzakers!” suddenly ejaculated the victorious Captain Desmond; and run- ning forward, he eeepc eG dizzily down the crew’s hatch. Below he beat on the deer of the sick-bay. “Is any of the officers come to their senses and able so as to stir about?”’ he breathlessly inquired when the door had been opened. ‘““Mr. Boies and Mr. Shea are tolerably right,” stated Berwynd, “but hardly in con- dition to knock around yet.” ‘““Mr. Boies, sir,’’ pleaded the master-at- arms, “‘we’ve gone and shot away their figurehead, and their Captain’s comin’ over to call in his gig. What we goin’ to do, with no officer to receive him?” “T’ll be right up, Desmond,” weakly vol- C© MICLOOOKS ©