Bill Barnes Air Adventurer, July 1935 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

16 tapped his wheels lightly. The ship skimmed across the rough ground at a terrific speed. As it came to a halt young Shorty MHassfurther’s head dropped forward on his chest. Huis hands fell to his sides. But before he lost consciousness he remembered that last smile of the ma- jor’s, before he died. He wondered if he was going to die—if this was the way death came to people. He remembered that last smile as though it were painted on canvas. And he was to remember it again seventeen years later on the wind-swept plateaus of Madagascar! II—OUT OF THE PAST WHEN Shorty Hassfu:sther, chief of staff to Bill Barnes, opened the door of his room in the pilot’s quarters on Barnes Field, that night in May, 1935, he was instantly aware that there was some one in the room. He closed the door softly behind him and crouched low while he moved toward the light switch. Knowing, the archvilliany of the class of murderers and criminals who made up Bill Barnes’ enemies, he was cau- tious. Barnes Field had been gassed, bombed and raked with machine-gun fire time and again. A Barnes pilot never knew but what death lurked just around the corner for him. “fhe fact that Barnes and his men still lived was not due to any caprice of nature or good fortune. It was due to their inherent instinct for caution and their aptitude at taking advantage of the breaks which they, themselves, created. Shorty’s hair rose along the base of his skull as a high-pitched, unnatural voice cut the silence of the room. It was a voice such as he had never heard before. Eerie, blood-curdling. He re- membered having heard a voice some- what like it when he had been present at a Spiritualistic seance one time. He BILL BARNES didn’t have any faith in the fake voices of spiritualistic mediums. But he knew this voice was real because he was hear- ing it in his own room. He wished he had a gun in his pocket. If he snapped on the light, whoever was there could shoot him down in cold blood before he could get to them. The words of the odd voice were more clear now. He listened, his hand on the light switch. “This Shorty Hassfurther,’ the un- natural voice said, “is a punk and an oaf. He pinches babies and kicks crip- ples’ crutches out from under them. He thinks he’s a great flyer. But he’s only akiwt. If he ever got in a real air fight he'd stick his yellow tail between his legs and run for home!” “You seem to know this fellow Hass- further pretty well,’ another voice said, a voice that Shorty recognized. That was when Shorty snapped on the light. As the room was flooded Shorty glared at the freckle-faced kid who sat in his easiest chair, beside the table. On the kid’s lap was a long-legged doll with a pot belly and a face that reminded Shorty of the faces of painted savages he had seen in Borneo. “Up to your old tricks, eh?” Shorty growled. But the twinkle in his eyes belied his gruftness. “Sandy” Sanders, the kid ace of Bill Barnes’ world-famous collection of flyers, laughed. He threw back his blond head and laughed until the tears came to his eyes. “How do you like my man Friday?” he asked. “Get out of here before [ throw you out,” Shorty said. The face and legs and mouth of the dummy on Sandy’s knee began to move. It bowed its head and raised one arm with the aid of the strings Sandy had fastened fo. 1t. 7 flat-footed kiwi "lf -theré “18 any around here who thinks he can throw BB—1 COmmcbooolkxsS.Ccon