Adventure Magazine Cover — page 183: what you’re looking at

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

The Phantom Major They had reached the door of the bar- racks and were about to enter. “T believe you’re afraid,’’ Hartley said scornfully. ‘‘Keep your yeller hidden, Oley!” Oleson towered above him, his fists clenched, his face flushing. “Tf I thought you meant that, I’d wring your dirty little neck, Hartley,” he choked. “Let’s eat first, then you can try it if you please,”’ Hartley retorted. And so these two who had been sworn friends for eighteen months sat down glow- ering, to their first meal at Lac Noir. The meal was not a success. All the Frenchmen had eaten, but the cook man- aged to find something for the Americans. The soup was cold and watery. When that was disposed of two tin plates of stew were placed before them. “This chicken is delicious,’’ Oleson said in French, examining one of the bones doubtfully. “‘Chicken!”’ cried a stretcher-bearer scorn- fully. ‘‘That is not chicken, it’s cat! Yes- terday the provision wagon should have arrived, but it did not. It was reported by telephone to have left Mittlach, never- theless our patrols can find no trace of it. The phantom major has captured it of course. Now there is almost no food. We in Lac Noir are forgotten as usual.” Oleson pushed back his plate. “Ts that true?” he demanded. The cook nodded apathetically. “Yes. Today we ate the cat, tomorrow we eat the dog!” Until the end of the meal the blond Swede only played with his food, but he watched every mouthful that Hartley ate with an affectionate, almost a passionate in- terest. When he was entirely finished Ole- son had the pleasure of telling him that his food had been purring by the fire only a few hours before. Hartley’s lips became pallid and he laid his cup of coffee on the table unfinished. “That’s the dirtiest trick you ever played, Joe Oleson!” he cried. “I can eat horse meat, but I can’t stand cat!” He rose suddenly from the table and hur-- ried to the door where he stood for a long time staring out into the night. When he returned Oleson was unrolling his blankets and preparing a bed in one corner of the long room. Already the Frenchmen were beginning to snore around him or were sit- ting on the edges of their stretchers unwrap- I8I ping their spirals. Hartley picked up his blankets and prepared his bed near the door at the extreme end of the room from Oleson. ‘“‘Ain’t you going to sleep by me, Jim?” Oleson called, touched with compunction. ‘We can fix the blankets double.” “f hope to keep as far away from you as I can till the end of the week,” Hart- ley answered bitterly. ‘I don’t want your blankets.” “Oh, suit yourself then,” Oleson grunted, turning on his side. The Frenchmen who were still awake watched them with faint interest. Ameri- cans were queer cattle. They arrived to- gether, but they hardly spoke and they slept apart. Then sleep claimed them. Outside the rising wind howled through the trees and across the surface of Black Lake. T MIDNIGHT Hartley sat bolt up- A right on the stretcher. He had been sleeping uneasily, perhaps because of the foul air which filled the room. True to custom the French had not only closed all the windows but they had sealed as well with rags and papers every crack which might have added to the ventilation. He lay there in the fetid atmosphere, his head aching, too drowsy to know what had disturbed him. Then he saw. A few yards away one of the Frenchmen had risen heavily from his bed and was drawing on his shoes preparatory to leaving the room. Hartley watched him incuriously. In a minute or so he would re- turn and they would sleep again. In the meanwhile a little fresh air would come in through the open door. At the far end of the room in the dim light that flickered from an oil-lamp Hartley thought he saw Oleson turn on his stretcher. It occurred to him to call out, asking whether his former friend was awake, then the memory of that undigested cat returned to deter him. Joe Oleson could choke be- fore he would speak to him. Hartley hoped he would. The Frenchman struggled into his shoes and rose to his feet, grunting and mutter- ing to himself. He walked down the mid- dle of the room avoiding the sleeping men and opened the door. Hartley could see him as he passed his bed—a stoop-shoul- dered, middle-aged man with a ragged beard. Probably one of the stretcher-bear- ers. He paused at the door for a moment, COMICOoOOe S (C@