Adventure Magazine Cover, June 18, 1921 — page 160: what you’re looking at

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

150 were blank, empty eyes, of an unchanging, ophidian stare. I didnot like them—or him. He chose Roberts at once. ‘Well, chief,” he began, “how about a job of work?” The engineer looked him over, and so did I. We saw a man of the middle height; a spare, lean figure, and very square- shouldered. He wore high laced boots of elkskin, khaki riding-breeches and jacket, much washed and faded, but scrupulously clean. And the green-gray boots, bleached khaki and gray felt hat seemed to repro- duce and render menacing the gray-green of his eyes. His sharp, clean-shaven face was colorless; his hair was an indeterminate flaxen, streaked with gray; the whole man seemed shadowy, neutral. “‘What’s your line?” asked Roberts. I can not say that the stranger smiled. His thin lips did not move; his eyelids did not move. Indeed, I never saw him wink—but twice. It was only that those cold eyes lighted from within, as if a murky fire blazed up behind gray glass. “Anything,” he answered evenly. His voice, too, was colorless; but now it rang thinly, sardonically. ‘You don’t know me. Iam Isaac Hand.” His hand went to an inner pocket; and I saw that he wore thick gloves, green-gray dike the rest of him. He produced a thick packet of papers, slipped off a rubber band and passed them to Roberts. The engineer glanced at them. “Sorry, Mr. Hand—” and now he spoke as to an equal—‘‘We’ve nothing that would interest you, I’m afraid.”’ Hand shivered. The Spring air was still chill enough, and he was thinly clad. ‘Anything,’ he repeated. “I’m: on my uppers.” He shrugged indifferently. Roberts hesitated a moment. ‘““Well—we need a timekeeper, over at Number Two.”’ The other’s lips opened a little, and he laughed, thinly, mirthlessly, so that I flinched at the sound of it. I had been hoping that Warren would send the fellow away, for I fancied that I knew the type. And now I prayed inwardly that he might refuse this trifling job, for that laugh con- firmed my diagnosis. Here was a born truuble-maker; and we had had trouble in plenty.at Black Valley—and the Quag was still unconquered. Adventure “Right, chief,” said Isaac Hand. a meal-ticket. foreman.”’ He took the note and departed to Camp Number Two, a;hundred yards away. I lingered a moment, striving to frame a warning, to state cogently my belief that the man should be rejected, or at least watched closely. But the matter was taken out of my hands. I heard a heavy tread without and Michael O’Shaughnessy appeared; a huge, grizzled Irishman, canny veteran of a hundred railroad camps. The man’s broad face was redder than his hair; his gnarled fists clenched and unclenched; he gnawed at his mustache, muttering ominously. 5 it, sorr!”’ he burst out, and stopped to take a fresh grip of himself. ‘‘Mister “Tt’s Roberts, ar-re you just afther hirin’ Lily- White Hand?” His voice accused. Roberts straightened, frowning in his pride of youth. “T’ve hired Mr. Isaac Hand as time- keeper, yes!’ he answered crisply. “But, sorr! Ye wudn’t— Wait, now! Ye dunno this man. I seen him afore, manny’s the time. Lily-White Hand, him! Lissen, now, b’y; I cud tell ye “That'll do, Mike!’ Roberts’ voice rang sharp. ‘‘He’s hired; and he goes to work.” “But, sorr—the man’s got a divil!”’ Roberts laughed irritably. “What of it? I can handle him. If he does his work, good; if not, I’ll fire him like anybody else.” I do not excuse the boy. have listened to the words of the older man, wise in the ways of railroad camps, but he did not. He had been up all night, and now he was weary, irritable, over-anxious to show his authority. And yet, if he had listened—would the Black Quag be bridled today? Old Mike shook a mutinous head. He was not a patient man. “Well an’ good, sorr—well an’ good! The saints help ye, that’s all. An’ now, since ye have hired ye such a par-r-r-agon, yell be needin’ me no longer. Ill take me time, sorr—before it’s Lily-White Hand that has t’ count it up.” ‘Nonsense, Mike!” ; But the old foreman was not to be placated. “No, sorr! ’Tis Saint Patrick an’ the snakes all over again. Me an’ Lily-White, we do not live together.” : 9 COmicloo Give me a chit to your. He should — CN Wp) CO