Adventure Magazine, Mid-September 1917 — page 139: what you’re looking at

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

Author of “The World Next Door,” “The Measure of a Man,” etc. “=StIE young man, his slenderness RJ} accentuated by ravages of alcohol, sank upon a chair. Hoarsely, terrifiedly he whispered: “T’ve killed her! I’ve killed her!” “You haven’t killed her,’ retorted the bronze-faced doctor, ‘“‘but it won’t be healthy for you torun away. They’ll have you swingin’ from a Montana telegraph-pole by sunset.” “Tt was booze did it!’ wept the thor- oughly sobered, thoroughly miserable young man. “Booze! Where did you get booze? You’re Posted in every saloon in the county.” “Art give it to me. Art said I'd kept away from it so long, it was all right for me to have one little drink. Then I had to have another.”’, ‘He let you have them?”’ : “He let me have them! I went mad. I came home. I broke down the door. I struck her The old doctor paused in his Netnecite work: of keeping the pathetically damaged little wife in a world which had proved very dreary, very hard, very disappointing. “Instead of running from this,’’ advised the doctor, ‘‘steer your pony for Sago City and see Lawyer Sanders. He can help you because he can sympathize. He came out here five years ago, a drunken sot. Where you were weak, he was strong. He cured himself. For five years Art has sworn to ‘set? him. Not enough of Sanders’ family fortune has been dribbling into Art’s till. This is a case at law. Go quick before it is lynch law. Meanwhile [’ll do what I can for the wife!” wee UP AND down the floor of a very | modern lawyer’s office in a very modern Montana, the handsome Henry Sanders strode with a chiseled frown. “Did any one see Art give you this drink?” “T guess not,” the boy replied. “Thought so,” grunted Sanders. ‘“That’s Art’s business—pulling down men who are trying to straighten up and be rid of the stuff.” “‘T’ve tried to straighten up,’’ wailed the boy. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried.” Sanders forebore to lecture. Having been in Jimmy Baggs’ place he knew that lecturing did no good. Instead, he took from his hip a beautiful gun. He crossed over and sat on the edge of the plateau desk. ‘See this gun?” heasked. ‘‘It’s the most wonderful gun in the world, boy. Why? It cured me of drink. Once back East I took too much. My friends called me the Human Sponge—not because I absorbed such quantities of the stuff, but because I submerged myself in it. They had to tear me off the bottom with a hook. I’m not joking, son. I was in a bad way. “Finally I nearly killed a man. I had to disappear. My folks sent me West. Coming out I thought the thing over. I wanted something to take my mind off booze. I got it. On the train was a man who told me about the old days of the West. His tales put some ambition into me. I 137 COmicloo C©