Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 153: what you’re looking at

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

Fowl Tactics “Not a whale of a lot,” I replied. “Ex- cept that several things had me puzzled. For instance, that first day by the pond, I wondered how Sleepy had got such a jag when, as I realized, he could put all of us under the table. And I also puzzled over his professed inability to swim when I knew, for fact, of many medals he had taken in that line of sport back home. I couldn’t help thinking something funny. Then I had to puzzle over Sleepy’s bedraggled uniform and the scratches on his face. You see, I had never heard of any one licking Sleepy in fair fight. What he figured in, I guess, was fowl fight; and what he got was a buffeting from some old drake’s wings.”’ ‘“‘Why the didn’t you put us wise?” asked Canning pettily. I grinned sarcastically. “Being a judge,” I said, “doesn’t compel you to tell everything you know, you know.” Canning snorted. “Finish the letter,’”’ the Old Man inter- vened. I picked up Sleepy’s explanation where I had left off: “T regret I had to sidestep the truth now and again. But you and your doggone ideas persisted in putting me in awkward holes from which I just 135 naturally had to escape. Once I fancied Lewis was hep to my ways; that day it was when Cauche came to my billet door with duck feathers sticking to his garments. Ye gods! I threw several kinds of fits then.” “Did you see those feathers?” wailed Canning. | “T’m afraid I did,” I answered. “Bah!” snorted Canning. The Old Man chipped in: “Tmagine Caldwell staging that route march; going to all that other trouble to maintain the surprize element in his party. Bright boy, I say. Initiative, I’d define it. Initiative!” A moment of silence. “This,” I said, “is Sleepy’s wind-up. Harken!” ‘“‘And if Canning or Meyers or Blane should heat up any over my recital of the facts, I shall be de- lighted, on my return, tell them, to throw them, individually or collectively, into the pond there. Cold water’s fine treatment for hotheads.”’ I wheeled on the trio. “Any complaints?” I asked, tapping Sleepy’s letter with my free hand. “Not here,” growled Canning. “Nor here,” said Meyers. “Nor here,” added Blane. CORnNIECLO© (©