Adventure Magazine Cover — page 103: what you’re looking at

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

The Lord of the Stony Rises permanently rounded out of shape by this melodious word. In point of fact Mitcham might as well have taken his passionate desire for ven- geance to the bottom of the deep blue sea. The fishes, possibly, would have been more sympathetic than the citizens of the Vic- torian metropolis. Of course, John Bur- dette had enemies. Mitcham located them easily. Would they assist him? They would not, most assuredly not. He started on his quest for a partner at the top of the tree, among squatters and other magnates. Their indifference was absolute, in the Hegelian sense of the word. They talked enthusiastically of the price of bullocks, which, since the gold, had jumped’ from thirty-five shillings to seven pounds a head. Why should they waste their time and their money fighting the doughty Burdette? When Mitcham’s savings began to peter out he avoided the squatters and sought out the less influential men. Storekeepers, publicans and small farmers. Publicans especially. While his money held out they listened politely and quenched his thirst. “Mitcham’s Nightmare” became a by- word from North Melbourne to portside. But why the deuce, inquired practical- minded people, didn’t he forget his troubles and make tracks for Ballarat? He wasn’t the first man who’d been a bit pummeled, nor would he be the last. But he would not listen to good advice. He didn’t want gold, he wanted to square his ‘account with Burdette. At the back of his mean little mind the obsession grew and grew. The weight of it hurt his skull, which it seemed to fill with a constant throbbing desire. He was in such a frantic hurry and no one would help him! The more he talked the more he drank. Before his eyes, between him and the world in which he lived, hovered a fantom of John Burdette, bulky and scowling and disdain- ful. Then he could have killed the real Burdette, but he had sold his horse and his saddle, even his blankets for beer and he was tied down to the streets of Melbourne. He couldn’t get out. The hallucination persisted. Always around the corner he expected to meet Burdette, around the next corner or coming out of some shop. So he walked very quickly through the streets, staring hard with blood-streaked eyes, his fists clenched, expecting every second to catch up with the fantom. Sometimes he 93 ran along the crowded pavements and the people Seeing the flicker of madness behind his pupils gave way before him. His money was all gone. He was afraid to sleep because Burdette might slip past him while he dozed. He begged his food at back doors. Christmas found him in jail for petty larceny. In January he was abroad again. He took up his quest with the same unswerving determination. Bur- dette was always a little ahead of him, just a few short steps, or hiding behind a door waiting for him to go by. At seven o’clock one hot morning in January he crawled from the top of the bales of wool in the goods-yard where he had spent the night and hurried back to Flin- ders Street. He shambled along quickly, forcing his way through the ranks of office- workers until he reached the busy corner of Petrie Street. Then he found he could go no farther. His knees gave beneath him. The sound of tramping feet, the rattle of the cars across the cobbles came to him in muffled undertones. Something was happening inside his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Leaning against a shop-front he fought against the overpowering faintness. He needed food—three days since he had eaten. If he could get a bit of bread. Something to gnaw upon, and a thick slab of corned beef—Burdette’s red neck bulging above the white collar—— People were looking at him. He sucked in the warm, dust-laden air through his open mouth. His hands pawed at the smooth surface of the plate-glass window at his back. If only he could get out of the crowd! In a minute he’d be down on the ground unless he could find some support. He’d be down on the ground, underfoot— and Burdette would go by. He was mak- ing a fool of himself, a —— fool. Burdette was miles and miles away at Credion. He threw himself away from the window. There, above the bobbing heads, he saw a flash of white disappear around the next corner! That was Burdette. Burdette! He broke into a lurching run, the bystand- ers scattered. Clump, clump, clump! His feet were like heavy lumps of lead rooting him to the ground. He swayed above them, staggering, pulling them this way and that. At the corner a man blocked his way. Not Burdette. He dodged, the man dodged. Mitcham screamed— Go NOOK 1 @)