Adventure Magazine Cover — page 142: what you’re looking at

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

136 warning glance, and stood rigid, his arm gripped by the soldier. Barret afterward realized that when he stepped forward his intention was to get aboard the train as quickly as possible, and leave his unwelcome companion to what- ever fate might be in store for him, but somehow, in the nervous excitement of the moment, under Morgan’s narrowed, cynical gaze, he found himself hastily slipping a fifty million ruble note into the hand of the soldier, with the remark— ‘‘Here’s his passport.”’ The soldier grunted and stepped aside. Morgan seized the bags and boarded the train. Barret followed, weak with relief. ‘Well, you’ve done it,’”? was Morgan’s comment. “Done what?” There was no need to answer. On the instant a head was thrust through the window, surmounted by a flat, military cap. An instant later another joined it, that of the soldier to whom Barret had given the money. He indicated the two with a wave of his bayonet. ‘‘Drag them out.”’ It was done, Russian fashion, with kicks, blows and prods of the bayonet. Barret landed on the station platform on his hands and knees. He was promptly kicked to his feet. Morgan followed in the same fashion a second later. Behind them the train began to move. As one of the carriages passed Barret caught sight of an excited face at a window and heard a voice call something in English. Vaguely he heard Morgan answer. He was too dazed and shaken to understand. Ringed about with bayonets he watched the train disappear. His bags—that was it. His bags were on the train. Something must be done about it. He couldn’t get on without even a razor or a change of linen. ““Come on.” It was the sergeant who spoke, inter- preting with a shove that sent him reeling across the platform. ‘““But look here,” he protested wildly, ‘“‘my bags are on that—— ‘‘Come on, swine.’ This time ‘it was a tee and kicks are a fine art in Russia. Barret picked himself up, sick with pain. “Don’t argue,” side of his mouth. said Morgan out of the “Come quietly.” Adventure q IN THE old days the Karkhova 67 House had been the show-place of sarc the town, the mansion of the local proprietor. Now since the Karkhovas no longer needed it—they were buried some- where out behind the abattoir—the com- missar used it for his own quarters. It all seemed vaguely incongruous—the colored floor tiles, the rows of long, gilt- framed mirrors, the heavy upholstery, and at the far end of the long room a little, oily Jew who did not even trouble to take his heavy boots off the great mahogany desk. The soldiers lounged across the room, driving the two ahead of them. Barret was limping painfully from the effects of the kick, and he had lost his hat. “Well?” remarked the commissar, paus- ing in the operation of paring his nails to peer at them with black, beady eyes. “I’m an American,” began Barret, but the commissar cut him short. “Well, you ain’t got it nothing on me,”’ he whined in unexpected English. “For eight years I am running a push-cart in New York, yet.”’ ‘‘What you fellers been doing?” he ques- tioned, the almost placating whine of his voice belied by the malevolence of the shifty black eyes. ‘I haven’t done anything,” declared Barret stoutly, the blood mounting into his round, good-natured face. ‘‘I was dragged off the Moscow train " ‘Just like me in your of a country,” whined the commisar. ‘Me, I am running my push-cart, not hurting nobody. Comes your bourgeois cops where a bunch of us fellers has a little club—not hurting no- body, y’un’stand—and runs us in. Me they kick out of your country for a Red.” His whine rose to a howl. ‘‘And what if I am a Red?”’ he screamed. ‘‘Ain’t the proletariat got no rights a-tall? You bet your life it’s different here, yet. Me, I am on the top now, you fe He launched into a string of abuse, curs- ing America and everything connected with it. Then his rage spending itself, he turned to the sergeant, and for a moment the two talked in purring, spitting Russian. “He says this guy ain’t got no passports, and that you was helping him make a get- away,” he explained to Barret. ‘You fellers think you can do just how you please. Where’s your own papers?”’ “In my bag, on the train.” COMG HOO (©