Adventure Magazine Cover — page 35: what you’re looking at

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

3 _ Born to be Hanged, But— I deliberately turned my back that he. might see how little I cared for the boiling anger that reddened his face and heaved his chest. I don’t think he noticed that I could watch him very well out of the corners of my eyes in the small mirror that hung on the bulkhead. As I have said, I am very cautious. When I seem to be taking a chance I am usually playing safe—dealing from the bottom of the deck. He contained his anger and went out. I supposed he wished my soul on the toasting fork of his satanic majest'y’s chief cook, but Mr. Swanson had given himself a little lesson in self-control. Perhaps he did not play poker, except in the crude draw-and-bet manner of the win-or-be- broken gambler, and so urf@erstood nothing of the refinements of bluff. all something for dinner. Withered and wise and rather old he was. And I imperturbably tried further con- versation with him, and received no answer. He watched me with a steady scrutiny not at all reassuring—but one can’t tell what is reassuring, or ominous, in a Chinaman. By night my hole had become unbearably wearisome. The Chinaman visited me again. But I paid no attention to him. But he seemed to me to hesitate, to linger. However, he did nothing, said nothing, and went away. I waited until it was dark, then went on deck to stretch my legs. I was of the opinion that I had been a little impetuous in coming on board the Jessie Darling. The situation was by no means clear, the future not reassuring. It would be wrong to suggest that I was afraid. When I get into a fix from which my wit and guns can not extricate me, then it is time to die—and as long as I am not shot from behind, my ghost will hold no grudge against the man that sends me across the Border. I was not afraid, but the need for having left San Francisco did not seem so pressing a score of leagues from the Golden Gate on a ship pledged to mutiny. It was no easy matter to stretch my legs for the moon was bright and dodged in and out among the clouds in a way that annoyed me. I had not yet got what sailormen call my bearings. The moon THE Chinese steward brought me et made little difference in that though. I knew nothing of ships. I did not learn much about the Jessie Darling either. I was kept too busy. As I stood identifying myself as much as possible with a mast shadow, I heard voices, — excited voices, aft, then a pattering of feet. A figure scooted by me and shouted down a doorway: “Turn out an’ search the ship. Woman hid—or overboard.” I had been given to understand the ship was short-handed. It seemed overcrowded to me. Voices, harsh laughter and harder jokes, rose in every direction; figures scampered by, some with lanterns; calls rang to and fro. From the poop-deck I could hear the voice of Captain Whibley. Questions and answers and directions— and jokes—all around. And reports. A man came by and flashed a lantern in m face; it was the man who had been de- tailed by Swanson to let me—or rather Thompson—on board. I made inquiries. He said she niust have jumped over- board. Sam Tyler had been at the wheel and said he saw her come up and go down amidships. Later he heard a splash— thought he did. Listened, but there was no outcry. Looked, but saw nothing. Sup- posed maybe it was only a porpoise or something. Must have been her. Ship was searched high and low. ~No trace. Old Man was furious—the captain, that is. Was having words with the owner. Cussin’ him out. Old Man could cuss some, he could. Seems like she wasn’t the owner’s daughier, but And wasn’t that kind of a woman after all. Seemed like she’d been half-drunk or something when she come on board. And sick. Saw what she was into—and jumped. | “Who is the owner?” “Don’t know, sir. Ain’t the owner after all. Old Man—I heard him—says, ‘You’re a liar. This boat is owned by John Collins.’ They cussed back and forth. Owner a big man with—” the seaman swiped his cheeks to indicate a beard, and added, “‘black.” I was hot with anger, but I couldn’t help anything. I could do nothing. I let women strictly alone because—well, I like them-when they are not interfering with me, when they are at a distance, on other men’s arms. But I don’t like to know of Eomichbooks (E(@) ALG