Adventure Magazine Cover — page 169: what you’re looking at

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

There and Back *Shut up, Duke. Anyway he said that probably it was ignition trouble on account of the motor having cut dead. So we sent a ship that two hundred miles with a repair kit, only to find that the crankshaft had broken in the motor, and George never knew it!” . ‘Here comes Curran. Let’s forget this jealousy—this kidding of the best pilot that ever came from Beacon Hill,”’ said Hem- ingwood, sauntering down the hall with his characteristic, bent-kneed stride. The car was waiting on the road in front of the quarters. To the right, on a line with the officers’ domicile, stretched the barracks and mess-halls of the hundred enlisted men of the detachment. To the left was Head- quarters, the garaye, machine-shop and warehouse. In the rear line were the pho- tographic and radio huts, as well as some miscellaneous shacks used for various pur- poses. The field was directly across the road, the four big hangars paralleling the road itself and forming the western bound- ary of the field. A tall, gangling sergeant was walking up the road. He saluted grudgingly. “Seeing Sergeant Woodruff reminds me —the general won’t have his aerial pictures of the big review tomorrow unless this mist is lighter than it is this morning,” remarked the captain as he took the wheel and started the engine. “Oh, the noble sarge would have the camera messed up anyhow,” said Heming- wood carelessly. “The next time he falls down there’s going to be trouble,” stated the captain, ominously serious. Then conversation became impossible. “T believe the C. O. has liquor stored,” said Patton as a bump lifted his big form two feet in the air. “He doesn’t want the eggs at the club to get any older before we eat ’em,” was Curran’s diagnosis. At twice the speed allowed by Post Regu- lations, Camp Henry’, the car shot down the concrete road which split the big, sprawling artillery camp squarely in two. A Ken- tucky morning when the climate is really working smoothly is worthy the attention of a connoisseur of mornings, and despite the mist the beauty of the day was calcu- lated to make any man start work on the right foot. To the men from sun-baked Texas it was like Paradise to see some 159 regular trees and feel cool air in their faces. At forty miles an hour they shot past long lines of army buildings, skidded around a corner in a manner that caused several artillerymen to wax pop-eyed, and drew up before the big Officers’ Club in a burst of . dusty glory. They joined Mr. and Mrs. Beaman for breakfast. Jim Beaman, although rather young to be trusted with a family, had a most charming wife, and his two-year-old daughter Jerry—short for Geraldine—was easily the most popular resident of the club. Hemingwood paused to tickle the delight- ed Jerry before he sat down, which invari- able habit of his always aroused rnuch glee in the bosom of the blond little sprite who was the officially adopted mascot of the detachment. The artillerymen and their wives who were breakfasting at near-by - tables nodded at the airmen with friendly smiles. Mrs. Hawkley, who was on the false-teeth side of fifty, gave Herningwood a particularly winning smile. Somehow or other she had found out that he was of the Hemingwoods of Bahston. “Captain Kennard, I wish you'd call Jim down for me,” laughed Beaman’s diminutive better half. “Look what I found on the club bulletin-board this morn- ing.” - The captain ceased his efforts to dodge the squirting juice of his none too well cut grapefruit long enough to read aloud the crumpled paper Mrs. Beaman handed him. Notice. Please do not buy Jerry Beaman any more candy or pop. I get little enough sleep as it is. JAmeES BEAMAN. ‘“‘Attaboy, Jim. Don’t let the artillery get too familiar with the women folks,” chuckled Hemingwood. “My measures are direct and to the point,” returned Beaman with a grin. “Is it too foggy out to take pictures on the mosaic today, captain?” “Ves. I’m hoping we won’t have to disappoint the general tomorrow on those pictures of the review he’s set his heart on. We can do the mosaic of the reservation any time, but bad weather will crab those review pictures to a fare-you-well.” “Which will disappoint the general sadly, and cause his already low opinion of the Air Service to sink lower,” said Patton. “I’m more scared of Sergeant Woodruff MICLOOOK (C@