Adventure Magazine Cover, October 1911 — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

The Adventure of the French Captain a man with a red, smooth face and a bull neck, arose to greet the newcomer. ‘“Welcome to our midst, Mr. Cozzens,” he cried with mock ceremony. Barnes smiled his acknowledgement and seated himself in the only vacant chair. He gazed curiously around at the members of the dinner party. They all bore a resem- blance to the host; that is to say, they all had very thick necks and very red faces. Their cheeks were so puffy that it gave them all the singular appearance of having little, round eyes. In short, there was an air of dissipated shrewdness in each of their faces. Barnes made a guess at their identity and he hit the bulls-eye the first time. They were all wine-agents. Feldspar revealed this fact himself before many minutes. “How do you do, Mr. Cozzens,” he said, shaking hands. “We're glad to have you with us.” ‘Thank you,” was the reply; “I am glad to be able to be here this evening.”’ ‘““Mr. Cozzens,” said the host, with a patronizing wave of the hand, “‘is our Cana- dian representative. This is the first time I have had the honor of meeting him.”’ The bogus Mr. Cozzens bowed in acknowl- edgement of this unexpected dignity and was presented to his associates in an in- formal way. Every now and then he glanced slyly at his watch. He had much to do and time was fleeting. Besides, the real Mr. Cozzens might appear to complicate the situation. Finally, much to the relief of the Chief, Feldspar arose to “make a few remarks.,”’ “Gentlemen, I greet you and wish you the compliments of the season. When we in- vited our principal agents to meet the firm, we thought to furnish you with a surprise. The Swan, loaded with acargo of wine for our house, left Bordeaux ten days ago. We thought it would reach here in time to take advantage of the old tariff rates. Unfortu- nately, it failed. However, every cloud has its silver lining. The Mermaid, which was carrying a cargo to a rival house, arrived here early this afternoon. That looked as if we had lost the race. The Captain of the Mermaid, however, paused to celebrate his victory and failed to reach the Custom House. His manifest and the other ship’s papers were lost and some wag has sent them to me as a trophy of the occasion. So that, instead of a defeat, the game is simply a draw.”’ IOI! Amid the buzz of excitement and con- versation the papers in the red portfolio were passed around from hand to hand. When they reached Barnes he examined them critically and then thrust them into his inside pocket. Feldspar noticed the action. He laughed. “No tricks on travelers!” he said. have those papers back.”’ “They don’t belong to you!” retorted the Chief. ‘“‘Nor to you!” returned the other, with some surprise. Barnes smiled blandly. “Tl see that they reach their rightful owner.”’ Every eye was on the old man. Feldspar rose in his chair, white with anger. ‘““What’s the meaning of this nonsense?” he shouted in tones husky with rage. At this critical juncture the curtains were parted and a voice announced: “Mr. Cozzens!”’ A short, stout, thick-necked man, with a red face, hopped into the room, puffing like a porpoise. He looked enough like the other diners to belong to the same family. Amazement gripped Mr. Frank Feldspar so suddenly that he was denied the power of speech. He pointed a stubby forefinger at the new- comer and finally spluttered, “*Are—you—you Mr. Cozzens?”’ ‘So me mother and father says,”’ flippant rejoinder. ““And your” cried the wine merchant, wheeling around to the Chief. “I?” was the response. ‘‘Here’s my card,” he said, handing a pasteboard to the host. ‘“‘Bromley Barnes,” he read, “ Formerly Special Investigator of the United States Customs Service!” “At your service, sir,” said the Chief, with his profoundest bow. ‘“‘Give me those papers!” cried F eldspar. ‘Not to-night,” said Barnes. ““You’d better!” cried the other. “It’s six to one! No one here will help you!” “‘T will!” piped a shrill voice from the rear. Every one turned to look. It was a waiter who spoke. He had a napkin carelessly thrown over his arm and was in the act of removing a plate. The detective gave one glance and uttered a cry of joy. “Clancy! You darling boy!” Feldspar gave a sniff of disdain. He spoke bitterly: 66 Tl was the Comicloooks ©