Adventure Magazine, April 10, 1924 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

The King of No Man’s Land wrought in men by accession to power or by dominating ambition; they had witnessed such transformations—most of them for the worse. And it was unpleasantly obvious that Aillu and Curac, who were Indians and subordinates, had just been given some information cavalierly withheld from them- selves, who were white men and presumably peers of José. “Doesn’t look good,’ agreed McKay. “But we'll see. Meanwhile, guess I'll turn in. Going to wait up for Tim?” “Not I. Let him sleep with the Indians if he likes. ’Night.” Knowlton was still awake, however, when Tim came creeping into the shelter. Feigning sleep, he covertly studied the other’s face in the moonlight now slanting in at the open end of the hood. Tim’s nose seemed swollen, and he breathed with some difficulty. Lying down, he fingered the injured member tenderly. “Serves you right!’ Knowlton erupted. “Whose tent did you try to get into, you night-walker?” “Huh? Aw say, d’ye think I dunno me way home? I jest been wrastlin’ with one 0’ the boys.” “Meaning what?” “Meanin’ jest that. Been hangin’ round with some hard guys down yonder—one of ’em could talk a li’l bum Spinach, and be- tween that and makin’ signs we got along fine. Had a great ol’ parley-voo about nothin’ much. Then we got foolin’ round, and I thought it’d be a good joke to pull a few wrastlin’ holds on ’em. But these guys ain’t got no sense o’ humor. The gink I had a holt of, he butted me in the nose so hard he knocked me for a rew o’ bananas, and before I could git up he dang near unjointed me. Ye know me, looey—I’ve handled some tough eggs before now. But I don’t want no more o’ that guy’s stuff. Course, I had to go easy and laff like ’twas all a joke—’twas either laff or kill him, and that wouldn’t do. But I tell ye these here gorillas are hard, looey, the hardest nuts I ever seen. I’m goin’ to lay off ’em.” “You'd better! You wild Irishman, they’re killers, every one of ’em. You're lucky that you got out of it without a broken neck.”’ “Faith, [believe ye. But don’t tell Hozy. Them bright jokes o’ his are gittin’ sour on me stummick, and if he started kiddin’ me about this here nose o’ mine I’d likely slip ‘hands tonight!” snickered José. 95 me temper and paste him one. Then we'd be in the soup for fair.” “You bet we would. Well, forget it and pound your ear. I'll keep it dark.” Tim speedily went to sleep. But Knowl- ton lay a little longer awake, frowning at the leaves above. Tim, too, was becoming a bit uncordial toward José. His distaste for the Spaniard’s jokes might grow into down- right dislike; and when Tim disliked any man he was never at pains to disguise his sentiments. Tiny seeds of discord were beginning to sprout, and Knowlton knew from previous experience that the tempers of fighting men form fertile soil for the rapid growth of such seeds. “Things aren’t so good,” he thought. “Tf this sort of thing keeps on developing the lid may blow off sudden and hard, and somebody’ll get hurt. Wish I’d kept my mouth shut to Rod tonight. Well, Pll keep it shut hereafter unless there’s mighty good cause to open it. And I'll try to sit on the lid awhile and see if I can hold it down.” So, when José stared at Tim’s bulging nose in the morning and Tim’s jaw began to protrude, Knowlton casually said: “That nose ought to be on me, and a couple of shiners to boot. I dreamed last night that a Jivero was at me, and before I knew where I was I’d smashed Tim in the face. Guess I’m getting nervous.” _ Sefior Tim, you must tie his “He has been eating too much monkey-meat, yes? We shall feed him on fish for a time.” Tim grunted something, and the incident passed. They were soon on the move, and if José ever learned the truth about the Irishman’s mishap he said nothing. Later, in their canoe, Tim muttered: | “Thanks, looey. I woke up with a grouch, and I’d sure have started a war if ye hadn’t carried the hod like that.” “Enough said. Swallow your grouches hereafter.”’ Down the river they swept, pestered more and more by mosquitoes as the sun rolled higher and the water grew more muddy. The Pastasa was widening, the current losing the force with which it had leaped down its long cafion from the far-off falls of Agoyan. Now the voyagers were in the real mud country where insect pests bred by the millions, and it was with vast relief that they turned, at mid-afternoon, into a shadowy stream issuing from the COnmliCcloo C S (C@ 5