Adventure Magazine Cover, October 30, 1924 — page 170: what you’re looking at

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

Ww et \ TUB TOBIN REPEATS b Complere a ove/etle DOUGLAS OLIVER Author of ‘‘To ‘Bugs’— and Butterflies,” “Queer Fish,” etc T WAS the closing day of the umpteenth or so course at the | Masnicres Musketry School. It was a beastly hot and sleepy day, too, and Private Tub Tobin, down the previous week from Cow Alley and the chalk pit—a country where strenuous times permitted little play for imagination—was casting longing eyes down the road at a white-walled estaminet wherein credit was good and the beer better. “An’ another little drink wouldn’ do us any harm,” whistled Tobin between smacks of his lips. “Wer right,” said the class non-com instructor who, too, was a lead swinger when opportunity offered. He lolled in the soft grass at Tobin’s side. Clawing at his collar hooks where they bit into his parched throat, he exclaimed— - ! I’m dry as the desert.” “What say, then?” asked Tobin in a stage whisper. The non-com instructor raised on his el- bow and squinted down the ribbon of road, bare as a billiard ball from the estaminet on to where it crept over the hill, a half mile distant. “Dunno,” registered one side of the non com’s judgment. “Aw, gwan,” pleaded the other side. Tub Tobin hung eagerly on the non- com’s decision. A broad smile swept to his face. Fishing in his belt he brought up some filthy paper money. “Stuff to give ’em,”-he said and waved the notes provocatively in front of his superior. The latter took another squint down the ribbon of road. No traffic. Not a thing visible. ‘The squint seemed to provide the missing link of assurance for he wheeled round, saying: “Allez, then. Shake those feet of yours. "Cause if you ain’t back by the time the brass hats arrive—you an’ me for the fire- works. An’ believe me, boy, old Birdseed knows how to touch ’em off.” Old Birdseed, it needs must be explained at this juncture, was a Canadian brigadier who boasted he could outshoot any man in his command and who everlastingly talked —the brigade called it a pipe dream—of a school of his own establishing where marks- manship could be developed to a stage of perfection hitherto undreamed of. On this theme he preached monotonously, early and late, and won for himself the reputation of being a twin track thinker, the spotlight of whose favor was but rarely turned, and then only upon those wise enough to assail him along his two lines of least resistance. Private Tub Tobin contributed another broad smile as he sensed the non-com’s anxiety. ‘“Trus’ me, sarge, it over.”’ “Make it snappy then,” said the non-com. “Merci, merct,’’ purred Tobin after the manner of a street gamin. “You may kiss me, sergeant.” The non-com, ” he declared. “T’ll put instead, aimed a kick 160 cComiclboolks.6