Adventure, August 1917 — page 101: what you’re looking at

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

A Little Song That He Knew the two; and Captain McConaughy would enjoy with us a correspondingly greater opportunity. Please let me know at your convenience if I may communicate with him on the subject. McConaughy pushed the letter on one side and picked up the manifest of the Elizabeth Barrett. ; “Well?” said Miss McNish. “Well,” said McConaughy, “I'll be takin’ out the Elizabeth Barrrrett next week Thursday.” “But, Captain McConaughy,” she said eagerly, “I haven’t the slightest objection to your going to the Claragh Line. Indeed, I think you owe it to yourself.” McConaughy put down the manifest again and looked at her severely. ‘“‘Ma’am,”’ he said, “‘d’ye think that Miles McConaughy would ever worrk for an Englishman, be he low or high, when there’s good men o’ Ulsterr will appreeciate his worrth? I ha’ no intention o’ leavin’ your employ—unless ye wish me to.” Pa =, GY = Vy Ay Y LULZ, Serge “Wish you to?” she cried. And for what you have said, if for nothing else, you shall have a seat on our board just as soon as I can call a meeting to arrange it. Oh, how I shall enjoy writing Lord Claragh that you would rather hold a half-size position with the Red Funnel fleet than be a giant of shipping interests in the Claragh Line.” ‘“‘An’ while ye are aboot it,” counseled McConaughy, “ye might drrop him worrd that ye ha’ given overr thoughts o’ matri- mony wi’ that—that long-sided, thick- headed, hairy-faced, gingerr-haired gomeril ne ca’s his son!” “Why, I never knew you felt that way about him!”’ exclaimed Miss McNish. “He ca’ed me McHoneybee,” said Mc- Conaughy simply. “Well, he has had his deserts,” she laughed. ‘“‘Ay,”’ said McConaughy, and there was a twinkle in his eye. Knew pp As eae 7s Flapsburg Liebe Author of ‘“‘In Full of Account,” “The Burning Light,” etc. T AN up-stairs window in the big and rough boarding-house of the Baxter- Wayne Logging Com- pany’s camp on Crooked Creek, which is deep in the heart of Tennessee’s hills, Ward Hanson sat as still as though he were frozen there. All but his eyes, that is. Now he looked toward the score or more of blue-shirted and booted, broad-hatted and corduroyed timber-jacks, his associates, at their usual Sunday afternoon play in the clearing around the boarding-house and the commissary and supplies building. Now he looked soberly and expectantly cComiclaook 99 “Never. © 5}