Adventure Magazine Cover, June 20, 1925 — page 165: what you’re looking at

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

Questing Shorty was stricken motionless with sur- prise, and in that instant the lame wolf gave a last convulsive bound and was upon him. Man and wolf rolled over in the snow to- gether, the man fighting feebly to keep the fangs from his throat. But the wolf only made curious little eager whimpering noises and licked his face. Slowly it penetrated into the little man’s dulled brain that he was saved; that after all King had proved loyal. He sat up, his arms tight around King, who was boring his nose into his master’s breast with soft snorts and whimpers of devoted love. The wolf pack resolved itself into a team of dogs and a carriole. A man ina 147 policeman’s uniform was standing over him. “Well, here you are, eh?” said the police- man in a hearty voice, assumed to hide his emotions. ‘Some dog that of yours. Blew into the post around noon today. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t let anybody put a finger on him, wouldn’t do a thing but bark and howl and raise the —— until I hooked up and followed him, and him hardly able to put one foot in front of the other. I’d give a million dollars for a dog like that.” Shorty raised a proud head though the tears glistened in his eyes. “You couldn’t have this here dog,” he said, “for a hundred million dollars. You King! Oh, you King!” QUESTING by Harold Willard Gleason V7 Sneed of the sunset, where the sea is ever blue, Somewhere sails a galleon, with an ear-ringed, grizzled crew Living over lives of strife, as deep-sea sailors do, For moidores, moidores of Spain! Down the breeze comes cutlas-clash, oath and fetter-clank, Boom of belching culverin, creak of straining plank, Shrilling scream of captive maid, splash as bodies sank For moidores, moidores of Spain! Click of dice on blood-stained planks, drinking chorus roared, Snap of skull-flag up aloft, toast of all aboard, Crash of shattered treasure-chest, and clink of goldén hoard Of moidores, moidores of Spain! Dawn, and blood-red waves a-swirl, cleft by: sharp black fin; Dusk, and crimp and light-o’-love, ravening tribe of sin, Quick to follow buccaneers, rolling boldly in With moidores, moidores of Spain! How escape the debtor’s chains? How forget despair? How avoid the ghastly dance jigged on empty air? Ship with Fortune’s gentlemen, and seek the beauty rare Of moidores, moidores of Spain! Westward of the sunset, those tall ships ever ride, Manned by blades in lace and rags, poverty and pride— Gentlemen of Fortune, who lived the life, and died, For moidores, moidores of Spain! COMIGDIOOKSEEO