Adventure Magazine Cover — page 168: what you’re looking at

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

158 again this morning,’’ announced Heming- wood, taking a brief glance into the bath- room mirror to see if his carefully cherished black mustache had sprouted any further -during the night. “Uh-huh,” chattered the stocky, thick- set captain, dancing under an_ ice-cold shower. ‘“‘Some of these days it’s going to be clear enough so that we can handle an artillery shoot without being in danger of getting hit with a shell,” pursued the Duke, so called as a tribute to the mustache. He stripped for action, plunged beneath the shower and out again as quickly as was humanly possible. “Being hit with a friendly shell is about the only thing that hasn’t happened to you in your career as a flier, isn’t it?” grinned the captain as he sawed at himself with a rough towel. Tall, blond Curran entered the shower- room in a dazzling bathrobe. He had reported to the Air Service Detachment the day before from May Field, California. “Is the Duke one of these hard-luck birds?” he inquired as he got into action with a shaving-brush. “Did you ever read O. Henry’s yarn about Kearney and Phcebe?” countered the cap- tain. “What made you think he could read?” inquired Hemingwood. “Well, the Duke is in the same class as Kearney for hard luck,” pursued the cap- tain as he prepared to depart. “By George, you’re right about the fog,” remarked the C. O. later as he was in process of dressin7. “Thick as cream, but maybe it’ll be high enough to let us shoot. This artillery bunch can’t savvy the various reasons that prevent us from arising into the ozone and “Raw, raw, raw, Ha-avahd,” interrupted Hemingwood rudely. “TI haven’t heard so much English spread since I went through Harvard “One afternoon and came out with three overcoats,” the captain finished for him. Patton, an incurable early bird, strolled into the sitting-room. “A little speed,” he exhorted, tilting his Stetson on the back of his curly black head. “If the captain would stop trying to be witty perhaps I could control my hysterical mirth enough to dress,’”’ returned Heming- Adventure wood, surveying the part in his sleek black hair appraisingly. His good-humored face was very brown— most of the officers of the temporary de- tachment of fliers at Camp Henry had come up from the Mexican border patrol, he among them—and a pair of merry brown eyes looked forth at the world witha care- less challenge in them. “Who shoots today?” “The Duke and Beaman. Curran will carry an artilleryman up to get a view of the works. I surely hope this first shoot of ours goes off well.” “You’re taking a chance, sending the Duke up, -aren’t your”’ “Just daring the gods to do their worst at the start,” admitted the captain, emerg- ing from the sanctity of his bedroom fully clothed. “The bedbug has no brains at all, but he gets there just the same,” caroled the Duke. There was practically no mishap in flying that he had not experienced, but somehow or other he always got through. He had had more outlandish adventures as a flier than any three men had a right to have, and the bad luck that haunted him was a stand- ing joke to every one who knew him. Hemingwood had no respect for ships or flying—he possessed a vast belief in the fact that he would wiggle through somehow. His creed was to open-’er-up and go ahead regardless. “Hustle up and let’s go. Curran! Nearly ready?”’ bawled Patton. “Just a minute,” came Curran’s voice from the upper regions of the barracks, which had been changed into bachelor officers’ quarters. “Did you ever hear about George’s fund of information about motors?” inquired the captain as he perched on the edge of a desk to await the rest of the bachelor contingent. “Don’t believe I have. It’s not very vast, is it?’’ grinned Patton. “Vast enough,” Hemingwood cut in. “I know where the throttle and park are— what more does a peelote need to know?” “We got a phone call from him one day at McMullen, saying that he had _ had a forced landing fifty miles south of San Antonio. He said the motor had cut dead— his massive brain had realized that almost in a flash, as it were = “Your sarcasm is as light and fleecy as MICLOOOK (©