Adventure Magazine Cover, June 18, 1921 — page 105: what you’re looking at

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

A Tropic Idyl himself afterward, whether detection and punishment, or not, Stort did not consider. His hatred and the drink made him too blind for that. When the sun was up, Stort supplied himself with two fresh bottles of liquor— one for his own nourishment and one for the bribe—and with these on his person set out to accomplish his plan. Roper was sitting upon Bruce’s veranda, so Stort detoured through the scrub, to escape the pearler’s vigilant gaze, and ap- proached his first objective, Charley’s kitchen, from the jungle. Charley had not yet arrived for the day’s labors and Stert made off with an empty tucker-box. It was a plain wooden box of the dimen- sions of an ordinary potato-box, which, at one time, it probably had been, and Charley, in his efforts to preserve his edibles against the jungle marauders, had fitted it with a hinged door of close-meshed wire screen. Anything larger than an ant could not get into the box if the door were closed; nor— and this pleased Stort—could anything larger than an ant, placed inside the box, get out. He came upon his second objective pad- dling along the beach. Billycan was in fishing array and bound for the reef; for since Bruce had fallen sick and Marua had evicted him from the T-T house, Billycan was compelled, to his sorrow, to rustle his own tucker after the manner of his fathers. “You catch plenty tucker alonga me to- day,” said Stort when he had hailed the native. “You make pickaninny job, black- fella job; close up you get plenty tucker.”’ Billycan scratched himself and plucked his beard reflectively. The promise of food—white fellows’ delicacies—interested him, but the mention of work took the joy out of the prospect. “My word,” he remarked without enthu- slasm. 7 “Little job, pickaninny job,” explained Stort. “You walk about alonga scrub, pick up watu—two, three watu . Billycan blinked his little eyes. “Me no like that fella job!” he declared emphatically. “Plenty tucker,” urged Stort. ‘“‘Bimeby job finish; you catch hot drink, big bottle, my word!” He held up the bribe for the black- fellow’s inspection. Billycan’s capacious mouth opened in his out of his vengeance. 95 astonishment, and the fires of desire were kindled in his eyes. The offer smacked of the miraculous. Never, even in his most pleasant dreams, had Billycan ever imag- ined himself the recipient of such a gift. Hitherto his experience with the white man’s magic drink had been limited to very occasional sips, chiefly purloined from for- gotten glasses. But a full bottle! Had Billycan the imagination to accord himself a soul, he would have bartered it joyfully for such a prize. As Stort well knew. ‘“‘Me top fella, boss,’ he recommended himself eagerly. ‘“‘Billycan bin make job good; me flash fella, my word!” Stort nodded agreement. He even pulled the cork from the bottle and permitted the dazed and happy aboriginal a short drink. Then he returned the liquor to his pocket, with the promise to give it all when the task was completed. He knew that with the taste of the gin in his mouth Billycan would not forget or idle. HE GAVE the tucker-box to the native, and carefully explained his needs. He wanted three death adders—‘“‘no pickaninny watu; catch him two, three big fella watul’”—captured and imprisoned, unharmed, beneath the screen of the box. He wanted a scrub rat alive and unharmed. He wanted these captives brought to him before the sun was hot. He would await Billycan and his burden at the place on the hillside where the “fellas gone finish” were buried. Billycan went into the bush and Stort repaired immediately to the cemetery. He had chosen this spot because he thought Carter would like to witness the working- For an hour or more he sat upon the mound beneath which his friend abided so restlessly, and chuckled and talked between his legs to the one below, and sipped and sipped from the arrack bottle. - He had not slept in days, nor had aught more sustaining than liquor visited his stomach since the previous morning, yet he was not weary or hungry; indeed, not for long had his wrecked body felt so full of life. He was vitalized by his hate and made joyous because its appeasement was so certain and soon. “T’ll get him!” he declared to the grave beneath him. He _ crowed _ exultantly. “He'll go hard—like you, Carter! He’ll oO COmicloo CN Vp) CO