Adventure Magazine Cover — page 40: what you’re looking at

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

38 WILKESON exiled while I live! I'll save ye from the rope, when the surrender comes, for a king’s officer can not let his nephew and godson hang, but there’ll be no room for such trai- tors as ye in the new king’s province of Champlain! And as for these,” his con- temptuous eyes were swept about the board, ‘‘they’ll e’en have to lie on the bed they have made for them. And when ye are dancing on naught,” he addressed the sergeants directly, ‘“‘with hempen collars about your necks, I trust ye will perceive more truly the disadvantages of serving your country—your cause, forsooth!—above your king!” The look of anger faded from young Floyd’s brow, and the blood washed from his cheek-bones. “Why,” began Barstow slowly, ‘‘as for them there hempen collars—” and he stopped abruptly, as Sergeant Allen sank sickly back in his chair. ‘“That’s the penalty,” continued Riddle, “for a-tampering with the loyalty of the troops.” “Tf the charge can be proved,” said Dock- stader, after a moment; and no one found more to add. Captain Allen’s face had cleared of all emotion. Dark, still, impenetrable, his glance traveled from one man to another— from Barstow lowering uneasily at one end of the table, to the shaking man at the other; from his godson to Captain Bulkley, who stood gaping slightly as he played with his sabretache. Young Floyd jerked him- self upright, and spoke in a thick and smoth- ered voice. “God help me! God help me, for I—I— can not save you, godfather!” He slumped forward, his arms outflung upon the table. One hand swept over the inkstand, and the black fluid slowly spread to the edge of the table, poured over it, thinned to a thread, and dripped slowly and more slowly to the floor. As slowly Bulkley gathered that all was not going exactly as had been anticipated. ‘“‘What’s a-matter, Allen?’”’ he asked va- cantly. ‘“Won’t they take the money? Maybe ’tain’t enough.” There was no answer. Captain Allen was staring into the black reflections of the pool on the table. The sergeant-major did not move, hardly seemed to breathe. The board were manifesting a growing perplexity. They glanced uneasily from Barstow to their O’CONNELL president, and then back to the senior ser- geant again. He was worriedly considering the crown of Sergeant Allen’s disordered head, and finally spoke, as if realizing that no help nor action was to be expected from the other end of the table. “T—I presume,” he said doubtfully, “that the first thing to be done is to put ’em under arrest.” The strain the board was under was re- lieved by this suggestion for definite, con- crete action. “Ay, that’ll be it,’’ they chorused, and Barstow hastily left the room to call for sentries. “Ye know, Allen,’ hinted Bulkley, ‘“‘that if ’tain’t enough, Sir Harry said we might raise the bid to—”’ “Be silent!”’ bade Captain Allen sternly, and went on with his own dark meditation, while the board relapsed into a suffering of discomfort. In desperation each sought and found some futile, blessed thing to do. Riddle nibbled the dried ink from an old, worn-out nib, his face puckering with the gall-bitter taste. Dockstader intently studied a deed that he held upside down before him. Holtz- burg drew out a yard-wide, blue calico hand- kerchief, with which he mopped his laboring brow. Maine hacked at the board before him with a hunting knife, and cleared his throat loudly; whereupon the rest turned toward him, eager for further suggestion, but he failed them. When Barstow at last returned with a brace of sentries, there was another mighty heave of relief, and all eyes gratefully watched as the guards went to the officers. Captain Allen was to be spared as much humiliation as was possible, for the sake of the other who bore his ill-omened name. The Britishers were quietly touched on the arms, not on the shoulders, and Barstow stood aside to let them pass him. “YT thank you,” Captain Allen acknowl- edged to the senior sergeant, and, after an- other long look at the figure spread across the table’s end, was turning toward the door, when Bulkley spoke in an old bewilderment. “T say, Allen, are ye sure they won’t take the money? Why, according to all report they’re starving!” ~ Allen whirled on the table. “All T ask,” he cried passionately, “‘al/ that I ask is that I may see this bleating swine hanged first!” cCOmiclbool. CO