Adventure Magazine Cover, October 1911 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

The Freak down the car even now, attempted a diversion: ‘‘Are you sure the girl doesn’t come until to-morrow?” It was an alarming success. He got a firm grip on my arm before he shouted with well-done alarm: “Say! Is this Thursday?” As if he did not know it was Friday. To recount the recriminations that fol- lowed would be useless. At length I agreed to go on with him, on two conditions: if the girl had arrived, I would stay to meet her if she were not too alarmingly young and pretty, provided he would explain that my clothes had been pawned to redeem his laundry. He swore solemnly, and we walked the few remaining blocks. Hejwas pointing out to me the house where he now lived, when we were struck dumb and staring by the sight of a carriage stopping before it. When the driver opened the door, there emerged a foot and ankle, then the rest of But what’s the user It has been tried too many times. Can man be more futile than when he tries with pen, brush or crayon to limn in a few seconds the eons- wrought masterpiece of the Creator? The vision that descended from that carriage was not only an American Girl of the Twentieth Century, but a Girl from Dixie in New York clothes! I defy the everlasting uni- verse to beat it! She swung gracefully up the walk. There was a feminine welcome on the porch, the driver staggered in with a trunk and drove away looking well paid; while we leaned weakly against a fence in the shelter of a friendly bush, staring at each other with sightless eyes. The primitive functions were the first to revive. With the first pangs of returning consciousness my legs began to bear me in record time toward Harvard Square and my safe fireside. Behind me was a clatter of gun and handcuffs, then long strides in pur- suit. Two blocks covered, there was a drag on my coat. I wriggled out of it and made two blocks more before a low tackle brought us both to earth. ““No you don’t!”’ came from Trainor like a cork from a charged bottle, as we struck the turf together. We sat up and grinned at each other fool- ishly, and Trainor had a new argument, “You'll have to come with me now! That fence was fresh-painted, and the near- est benzine-bottle is in the bath-room at my 955 place. If you go back, the paint will dry and you won’t have any clothes to wear!” He was right. We both presented a bright yellow western exposure. So the shades of evening fell upon two long fig- ures stealing up the avenue, gathering hats, coat, gun and bracelets on the back trail. Through the back way we gained the bath-room unseen in the dusk. As we worked at the paint in airy attire, he pointed out the bed-slat standing in the corner, beautifully whittled to a handle and with the corners rounded. He introduced it as his ‘‘ Nerve Sedative.” Myita) THE paint was almost finished + when from somewhere down the hall ' came a chorus of feminine screams that set us wildly scrambling into our fragrant garments. “The old hyena! Teat. The handcuffs! Sure! This is where Where—where?’”’ Trainor was the center of a whirlwind of’ wearing-apparel, from which he emerged decently clothed, and disappeared waving bracelets and ‘‘ Nerve Sedative” long before I was able to find my belongings. When at last I was visible to eyes polite, I stepped gropingly into a strange darkness. Two steps in the direction of a smothered tumult, which then seemed to come from quite an- other place; two more steps in the new direction; then the lights were turned on and I shaded my eyes before the gorgeous Vision that confronted me. In something soft and richly purple, over which the heavy bronze ripples swept to the curve of her hips, the rose-cream curves of neck and arms were not so wicked as the violet of her frightened eyes. | “Pardon me!” I stammered. “Please don’t be frightened! I’m not anybody—I— You—Look out!” For a door behind her shook to a crash from within. She recoiled toward me, with- drew a light touch on my arm, and, like scared children, we stared at the door that hid the increasing turmoil. There was a shuffling struggle, scraping and panting; a table spun across the floor to the wall with a crash. Then a heavy weight landed on a bed and, with the sound of beat- ing carpets, came cracked squeals of, “‘ Help! Murder! Police!’—quickly smothered in a pillow. Then, following rhythmic spanks, accenting the admonition, came, “‘Not— C© CloOOOLKS ©