Adventure Magazine Cover — page 87: what you’re looking at

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

Flatfoot Strategy mouse—a sneak. Any old-timer will tell you that the next most useless thing to a rat was a master-at-arms or “jimmy-legs.”’ That’s how he came to be a master-at- rams—by being useless in any other branch of the service. His job was to catch some one doing something. He rated senior to all the other petty officers. These parasites are no more, thanks be. “T think he’s gonna pull that little stunt this mornin’,” said Snoots after a while. “Both him an’ his pup, Johnson, are _ watchin’ me close this mornin’.”’ ‘Then slip the bottle to Dixie or me.” “No.” He grinned. “You fellers jest watch things, that’s all.” The doctor came in a little while. When he had finished inspecting tongues and ask- ing questions, Gillen stepped up to him. Doctor,” said the louse, pointing at Snoots, “that fellow has a bottle of alcohol in his right sock.” The doctor turned and looked Snoots up and down. “Well?” he said finally, impatiently. “Break it out!” Snoots bent over and out of his right sock drew a half-pint medicine bottle. It was about half-full. He handed it to the doctor, saying— oa | figgered, sir, ’'d kind o’ os the dis- ease out o’ my system, by takin’ a little o’ this in a drink o’ water now an’ then.” 66 Uh -huh. 9) The doctor began working out the cork. “I suppose there’s no use asking you which pharmacist’s mate gave it to you.” “T think I know who it was, sir,’’ Gillen chimed in. “‘___!?_ The doctor was sniffing at the bottle’s opening. He held it out to Gillen. ‘‘Does that smell like alcohol'to your” Gillen’s jaw fell as he sniffed of it. ‘Well, I was positive, sir,” he began, “T smelled alcohol——” “What is it?”’ the doctor broke i in, turning to Snoots. “Salts, sir.” And Snootful’s face went red with the red of triumph, as the doctor handed him back his bottle. Bending over and stuffing it back in his sock, he added: “TI figgered it’d be a good way to keep clear o’ the disease.” The doctor turned and bored Gillen with a pair of eyes that could bore. ¢ Cilllen,” he said, in a low but business- 81 like tone, “I told you once that down here you’re a patient. Don’t make me tell it to you again.” : When he had gone, Snoots stepped over to the heap of bags and hammocks, and brought forth his drinking-cup. Again he bent over and out of his sock came the bottle. He then stepped over to the water- cooler, where, after pouring himself a stiff hooker from the bottle, he filled the cup with ice-water. “Here’s fun, Gillen,”’ he shouted, holding the cup aloft. ‘“‘Here’s fun to you an’ your pup.” But mark-ee, ’twas not salts he drank. He had two bottles in that sock. FOR over a week we smothered and a boiled down in that disease-pit. By ¥84 then there were more than seventy in the gang. The doctor had roped us off in three sections—the “scabs,” the “germs” and the “lily whites.” The scabs were in the after section, the germs in the middle and we lily whites forward. We starved. Our bellies were fast falling flat against our spines. Oh, the grub they brought us was good, and there was plenty of it; but nearly all of us were too disgusted to look at it. Another two days would have brought mutiny. Our nerves were stretched to the snapping-point. Like so many dogs in a pound we squirmed and wiggled about, dodging contact with one another, snapping, snarling. We were red-eyed and ready to blow up. I looked for a rush toward that door to the sick-bay any minute. Four armed marines now stood outside of that door. Yes, sir; we were desperate. One fellow actually tried to hang himself with his ham- mock lashing one night. Another snatched a bottle of iodine from a pharmacist’s mate, and tried to gulp it. Both of those fellows are alive today, thanks to Snootful Bennet. I kept my eye on Gillen and Johnson. “That pair is going to pull a deep one on Snoots one of these days,’ I said to Dixie one evening. ‘‘Gillen’s eyes shoot fire every time he Jooks at Snoots. He’s rotten to the root, that bird. There’s nothing he’d rather do than knife Snoots in the back. And the height of his pup’s ambition is to be a master-at-arms. He’ll do anything Gillen tells him to, figuring Gillen’ll help him land the rate.” _ “Breeze,” Dixie replied, “don’t you COmiclboolks ©