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RANSON'S FOLLY
PART I
PART II
PART III
THE BAR SINISTER
PART I
PART II
A DERELICT
LA LETTRE D'AMOUR
IN THE FOG
I
II
III
The junior officers of Fort Crockett had organized a mess at thepost-trader's. "And a mess it certainly is," said LieutenantRanson. The dining-table stood between hogsheads of molasses and ablazing log-fire, the counter of the store was their buffet, apool-table with a cloth, blotted like a map of the Great Lakes,their sideboard, and Indian Pete acted as butler. But none of thesethings counted against the great fact that each evening MaryCahill, the daughter of the post-trader, presided over the eveningmeal, and turned it into a banquet. From her high chair behind thecounter, with the cash- register on her one side and theweighing-scales on the other, she gave her little Senate laws, andsmiled upon each and all with the kind impartiality of acomrade.
At least, at one time she had been impartial. But of late shesmiled upon all save Lieutenant Ranson. When he talked, she nowlooked at the blazing log-fire, and her cheeks glowed and her eyesseemed to reflect the lifting flame.
For five years, ever since her father brought her from theconvent at St. Louis, Mary Cahill had watched officers come andofficers go. Her knowledge concerning them, and their public andprivate affairs, was vast and miscellaneous. She was acquaintedwith the traditions of every regiment, with its war record, withits peace-time politics, its nicknames, its scandals, even with theearnings of each company- canteen. At Fort Crockett, which layunder her immediate observation, she knew more of what was goingforward than did the regimental adjutant, more even than did thecolonel's wife. If Trumpeter Tyler flatted on church call, if Mrs.Stickney applied to the quartermaster for three feet of stovepipe,if Lieutenant Curtis were granted two days' leave forquail-shooting, Mary Cahill knew it; and if Mrs. "Captain" Stairsobtained the post-ambulance for a drive to Kiowa City, when Mrs."Captain" Ross wanted it for a picnic, she knew what words passedbetween those ladies, and which of the two wept. She knew all ofthese things, for each evening they were retailed to her by her"boarders." Her boarders were very loyal to Mary Cahill. Herposition was a difficult one, and had it not been that the boy-officers were so understanding, it would have been much moredifficult. For the life of a regimental post is as circumscribed asthe life on a ship-of-war, and it would no more be possible for theship's barber to rub shoulders with the admiral's epaulets thanthat a post-trader's child should visit the ladies on the "line,"or that the wives of the enlisted men should dine with the younggirl from whom they "took in" washing.
So, between the upper and the nether grindstones, Mary Cahillwas left without the society of her own sex, and was of necessityforced to content herself with the society of the officers. And theofficers played fair. Loyalty to Mary Cahill was a tradition atFort Crockett, which it was the duty of each succeeding regiment tosustain. Moreover, her father, a dark, sinister man, alive only tomoney- making, was known to handle a revolver with the alertness ofa town- marshal.
Since the day she left the convent Mary Cahill had held but twoaffections: one for this grim, taciturn parent, who brooded overher as jealously as a lover, and the other for the entire UnitedStates Army. The Army returned her affection without the jealousyof the father, and with much more than his effusiveness. But whenLieutenant Ranson arrived from the Philippines, the affections ofMary Cahill became less generously distributed, and her heartfluttered hourly between trouble and joy.
There were two rooms on the first floor of thepost-trader's—this big one, which only officers and theirwomen-folk might enter, and the other, the exchange of the enlistedmen. The two were separated by a partition of logs and hung withshelves on which were displayed calicoes, tinned meats, and patentmedicines. A door, cut in one end of the partition, withbuffalo-robes for portieres, permitted Cahill to pass from behindthe counter of one store to behind the counter of the other. On oneside Mary Cahill served the Colonel's wife with many yards of silkribbons to be converted into german favors, on the other her fatherweighed out bears' claws (manufactured in Hartford, Conn., fromturkey-bones) to make a necklace for Red Wing, the squaw of theArrephao chieftain. He waited upon everyone with gravity, and inobstinate silence. No one had ever seen Cahill smile. He himselfoccasionally joked with others in a grim and embarrassed manner.But no one had ever joked with him. It was reported that he camefrom New York, where, it was whispered, he had once kept bar on theBowery for McTurk.
Sergeant Clancey, of G Troop, was the authority for this. Butwhen, presuming on that supposition, he claimed acquaintanceshipwith Cahill, the post-trader spread out his hands on the counterand stared at the sergeant with cold and disconcerting eyes. "Inever kept bar nowhere," he said. "I never been on the Bowery,never been in New York, never been east of Denver in my life. Whatwas it you ordered?"
"Well, mebbe I'm wrong," growled the sergeant.
But a month later, when a coyote howled down near the Indianvillage, the sergeant said insinuatingly, "Sounds just like the cryof the Whyos, don't it?" And Cahill, who was listening to the wolf,unthinkingly nodded his head.
The sergeant snorted in triumph. "Yah, I told you so!" he cried,"a man that's never been on the Bowery, and knows the call of theWhyo gang! The drinks are on you, Cahill."
The post-trader did not raise his eyes, but drew a damp cloth upand down the counter, slowly and heavily, as a man sharpens a knifeon a whetstone.
That night, as the sergeant went up the path to the post, abullet passed through his hat. Clancey was a forceful man, andforceful men, unknown to themselves, make enemies, so he wasuncertain as to whether this came from a trooper he had borne upontoo harshly, or whether, In the darkness, he had been picked offfor someone else. The next night, as he passed in the full light ofthe post-trader's windows, a shot came from among the dark shadowsof the corral, and when he immediately sought safety in numbersamong the Indians, cowboys, and troopers in the exchange, he was intime to see Cahill enter it from the other store, wrapping up abottle of pain-killer for Mrs. Stickney's cook. But Clancey was notdeceived. He observed with satisfaction that the soles and theheels of Cahill's boots were wet with the black mud of thecorral.
The next morning, when the exchange was empty, the post-traderturned from arranging cans of condensed milk upon an upper shelf toface the sergeant's revolver. He threw up his hands to the level ofhis ears as though expressing sharp unbelief, and waited insilence. The sergeant advanced until the gun rested on the counter,Its muzzle pointing at the pit of Cahill's stomach. "You or me hasgot to leave this post," said the sergeant, "and I can't desert, soI guess it's up to you."
"What did you talk for?" asked Cahill. His attitude was stillthat of shocked disbelief, but his tone expressed a full acceptanceof the situation and a desire to temporize.
"At first I thought it might be that new 'cruity' in F Troop,"explained the sergeant "You came near making me kill the wrong man.What harm did I do you by saying you kept bar for McTurk? What'sthere in that to get hot about?"
"You said I run with the Whyos."
"What the h—l do I care what you've done!" roared thesergeant. "I don't kmow nothing about you, but I don't mean youshould shoot me in the back. I'm going to tell this to my bunky,an' if I get shot up, the Troop'll know who done it, and you'llhang for it. Now, what are you going to do?"
Cahill did not tell what he would do; for, from the other store,the low voice of Mary Cahill called, "Father! Oh, father!"
The two men dodged, and eyed each other guiltily. The sergeantgazed at the buffalo-robe portieres with wide-opened eyes. Cahill'shands dropped from the region of his ears, and fell flat upon thecounter.
When Miss Mary Cahill pushed aside the portieres SergeantClancey, of G Troop, was showing her father the mechanism of thenew regulation- revolver. He apparently was having some difficultywith the cylinder, for his face was red. Her father was eying thegun with the critical approval of an expert.
"Father," said Miss Cahill petulantly, "why didn't you answer?Where is the blue stationery—the sort Major Ogden alwaysbuys? He's waiting."
The eyes of the post-trader did not wander from the gun beforehim. "Next to the blank books, Mame," he said. "On the secondshelf."
Miss Cahill flashed a dazzling smile at the big sergeant, andwhispered, so that the officer in the room behind her might notoverhear, "Is he trying to sell you Government property, dad? Don'tyou touch it. Sergeant, I'm surprised at you tempting my poorfather." She pulled the two buffalo-robes close around her neck sothat her face only showed between them. It was a sweet, lovelyface, with frank, boyish eyes.
"When the major's gone, sergeant," she whispered, "bring yourgun around my side of the store and I'll buy it from you."
The sergeant nodded in violent assent, laughing noiselessly andslapping his knee in a perfect ecstasy of delight.
The curtains dropped and the face disappeared.
The sergeant fingered the gun and Cahill folded his armsdefiantly.
"Well?" he said.
"Well?" asked the sergeant.
"I should think you could see how it is," said Cahill, "withoutmy having to tell you."
"You mean you don't want she should know?"
"My God, no! Not even that I kept a bar."
"Well, I don't know nothing. I don't mean to tell nothing,anyway, so if you'll promise to be good I'll call this off."
For the first time in the history of Fort Crockett, Cahill wasseen to smile. "May I reach under the counter NOW?" he asked.
The sergeant grinned appreciatively, and shifted his gun. "Yes,but I'll keep this out until I'm sure it's a bottle," he said, andlaughed boisterously.
For an instant, under the cover of the counter, Cahill's handtouched longingly upon the gun that lay there, and then passed onto the bottle beside it. He drew it forth, and there was the clinkof glasses.
In the other room Mary Cahill winked at the major, but thatofficer pretended to be both deaf to the clink of the glasses andblind to the wink. And so the incident was closed. Had it not beenfor the folly of Lieutenant Ranson it would have remainedclosed.
A week before this happened a fire had started in the WillowBottoms among the tepees of some Kiowas, and the prairie, as far asone could see, was bruised and black. From the post it looked asthough the sky had been raining ink. At the time all of theregiment but G and H Troops was out on a practice-march,experimenting with a new-fangled tabloid-ration. As soon as itturned the buttes it saw from where the light in the heavens cameand the practice-march became a race.
At the post the men had doubled out under Lieutenant Ranson withwet horse-blankets, and while he led G Troop to fight the flames, HTroop, under old Major Stickney, burned a space around the post,across which the men of G Troop retreated, stumbling, with theirears and shoulders wrapped in the smoking blankets. The sparks beatupon them and the flames followed so fast that, as they ran, theblazing grass burned their lacings, and they kicked their gaitersahead of them.
When the regiment arrived it found everybody at Fort Crocketttalking enthusiastically of Ranson's conduct and resentfully of thefact that he had regarded the fire as one which had been startedfor his especial amusement.
"I assure you," said Mrs. Bolland to the colonel, "if it hadn'tbeen for young Ranson we would have been burned in our beds; but hewas most aggravating. He treated it as though it were Fourth ofJuly fireworks. It is the only entertainment we have been able tooffer him since he joined in which he has shown the slightestinterest." Nevertheless, it was generally admitted that Ranson hadsaved the post. He had been ubiquitous. He had been seen gallopinginto the advancing flames like a stampeded colt, he had reappearedlike a wraith in columns of black, whirling smoke, at the samemoment his voice issued orders from twenty places. One instant hewas visible beating back the fire with a wet blanket, waving itabove him jubilantly, like a substitute at the Army-Navy game whenhis side scores, and the next staggering from out of the furnacedragging an asphyxiated trooper by the collar, and shrieking,"Hospital-steward, hospital-steward! here's a man on fire. Put himout, and send him back to me, quick!"
Those who met him in the whirlwind of smoke and billowing flamerelated that he chuckled continuously. "Isn't this fun?" he yelledat them. "Say, isn't this the best ever? I wouldn't have missedthis for a trip to New York!"
When the colonel, having visited the hospital and spokencheering words to those who were sans hair, sans eyebrows and withbandaged hands, complimented Lieutenant Ranson on the parade-groundbefore the assembled regiment, Ranson ran to his hut mutteringstrange and fearful oaths.
That night at mess he appealed to Mary Cahill for sympathy."Goodness, mighty me!" he cried, "did you hear him? Wasn't itawful? If I'd thought he was going to hand me that I'd havedeserted. What's the use of spoiling the only fun we've had thatway? Why, if I'd known you could get that much excitement out ofthis rank prairie I'd have put a match to it myself three monthsago. It's the only fun I've had, and he goes and preaches a funeraloration at me."
Ranson came into the army at the time of the Spanish war becauseit promised a new form of excitement, and because everybody else heknew had gone into it too. As the son of his father he was made anadjutant-general of volunteers with the rank of captain, andunloaded on the staff of a Southern brigadier, who was slated neverto leave Charleston. But Ranson suspected this, and, aftertelegraphing his father for three days, was attached to thePhilippines contingent and sailed from San Francisco in time tocarry messages through the surf when the volunteers moved uponManila. More cabling at the cost of many Mexican dollars caused himto be removed from the staff, and given a second lieutenancy in avolunteer regiment, and for two years he pursued the little brownmen over the paddy sluices, burned villages, looted churches, andcollected bolos and altar-cloths with that irresponsibility andcontempt for regulations which is found chiefly in the appointmentfrom civil life. Incidentally, he enjoyed himself so much that hebelieved in the army he had found the one place where excitement isalways in the air, and as excitement was the breath of his nostrilshe applied for a commission in the regular army. On his record hewas appointed a second lieutenant in the Twentieth Cavalry, and onthe return of that regiment to the States— was buried aliveat Fort Crockett.
After six months of this exile, one night at the mess-tableRanson broke forth in open rebellion. "I tell you I can't stand ita day longer," he cried. "I'm going to resign!"
From behind the counter Mary Cahill heard him in horror. SecondLieutenants Crosby and Curtis shuddered. They were sons of officersof the regular army. Only six months before they themselves hadbeen forwarded from West Point, done up in neat new uniforms. Thetraditions of the Academy of loyalty and discipline had beenkneaded into their vertebrae. In Ranson they saw only the horribleresult of giving commissions to civilians.
"Maybe the post will be gayer now that spring has come," saidCurtis hopefully, but with a doubtful look at the open fire.
"I wouldn't do anything rash," urged Crosby.
Miss Cahill shook her head. "Why, I like it at the post," shesaid, "and I've been here five years—ever since I left theconvent—and I- —"
Ranson interrupted, bowing gallantly. "Yes, I know, MissCahill," he said, "but I didn't come here from a convent. I camehere from the blood-stained fields of war. Now, out in thePhilippines there's always something doing. They give you half atroop, and so long as you bring back enough Mausers and don't getyour men cut up, you can fight all over the shop and no questionsasked. But all I do here is take care of sick horses. Any vet. inthe States has seen as much fighting as I have in the lasthalf-year. I might as well have had charge of horse-carstables."
"There is some truth in that," said Curtis cautiously. "If youdo resign, certainly no one can accuse you of resigning in the faceof the enemy."
"Enemy, ye gods!" roared Ranson. "Why, if I were to see a Moroentering that door with a bolo in each fist I'd fall on his neckand kiss him. I'm not trained to this garrison business. Youfellows are. They took all the sporting blood out of you at WestPoint; one bad mark for smoking a cigarette, two bad marks forfailing to salute the instructor in botany, and all the excitementyou ever knew were charades and a cadet-hop a t Cullum Hall. But,you see, before I went to the Philippines with Merritt, I'd beenthere twice on a fellow's yacht, and we'd tucked the Spanishgovernor in his bed with his spurs on. Now, I have to sit aroundand hear old Bolland tell how he put down a car-strike in St.Louis, and Stickney's long-winded yarns of Table Mountain and theBloody Angle. He doesn't know the Civil War's over. I tell you, ifI can't get excitement on tap I've got to make it, and if I make itout here they'll court-martial me. So there's nothing for it but toresign."
"You'd better wait till the end of the week," said Crosby,grinning. "It's going to be full of gayety. Thursday, paymaster'scoming out with our cash, and to-night that Miss Post from New Yorkarrives in the up stage. She's to visit the colonel, so everybodywill have to give her a good time."
"Yes, I certainly must wait for that," growled Ranson; "thereprobably will be progressive euchre parties all along the line, andwe'll sit up as late as ten o'clock and stick little gilt stars onourselves."
Crosby laughed tolerantly.
"I see your point of view," he said. "I remember when my fathertook me to Monte Carlo I saw you at the tables with enough money infront of you to start a bank. I remember my father asked thecroupiers why they allowed a child of your age to gamble. I wasjust a kid then, and so were you, too. I remember I thought youwere the devil of a fellow."
Ranson looked sheepishly at Miss Cahill and laughed. "Well, so Iwas- -then," he said. "Anybody would be a devil of a fellow who'dbeen brought up as I was, with a doting parent who owns a trust anddoesn't know the proper value of money. And yet you expect me to behappy with a fifty-cent limit game, and twenty miles of burnedprairie. I tell you I've never been broken to it. I don't know whatnot having your own way means. And discipline! Why, every time Ihave to report one of my men to the colonel I send for himafterward and give him a drink and apologize to him. I tell you thearmy doesn't mean anything to me unless there's something doing,and as there is no fighting out here I'm for the back room of theHolland House and a rubber-tired automobile. Little old New York isgood enough for me!"
As he spoke these fateful words of mutiny Lieutenant Ransonraised his black eyes and snatched a swift side-glance at the faceof Mary Cahill. It was almost as though it were from her he soughthis answer. He could not himself have told what it was he wouldhave her say. But ever since the idea of leaving the army had cometo him, Mary Cahill and the army had become interchangeable and hadgrown to mean one and the same thing. He fought against thiscondition of mind fiercely. He had determined that without activeservice the army was intolerable; but that without Mary Cahillcivil life would also prove intolerable, he assured himself did notat all follow. He had laughed at the idea. He had even argued itout sensibly. Was it reasonable to suppose, he asked himself, thatafter circling the great globe three times he should find the onegirl on it who alone could make him happy, sitting behind apost-trader's counter on the open prairie? His interest in MissCahill was the result of propinquity, that was all. It was due tothe fact that there was no one else at hand, because he was sorryfor her loneliness, because her absurd social ostracism had touchedhis sympathy. How long after he reached New York would he rememberthe little comrade with the brave, boyish eyes set in the delicate,feminine head, with its great waves of gorgeous hair? It would notbe long, he guessed. He might remember the way she rode her pony,how she swung from her Mexican saddle and caught up a gauntlet fromthe ground. Yes, he certainly would remember that, and he wouldremember the day he had galloped after her and ridden with herthrough the Indian village, and again that day when they rode tothe water-fall and the Lover's Leap. And he would remember her faceat night as it bent over the books he borrowed for her, which sheread while they were at mess, sitting in her high chair with herchin resting in her palms, staring down at the book before her. Andthe trick she had, whenever he spoke, of raising her head andlooking into the fire, her eyes lighting and her lips smiling. Theywould be pleasant memories, he was sure. But once back again in thewhirl and rush of the great world outside of Fort Crockett, even asmemories they would pass away.
Mary Cahill made no outward answer to the rebellious utteranceof Lieutenant Ranson. She only bent her eyes on her book and triedto think what the post would hold for her when he had carried outhis threat and betaken himself into the world and out of her lifeforever. Night after night she had sat enthroned behind her barrierand listened to his talk, wondering deeply. He had talked of aworld she knew only in novels, in history, and in books of travel.His view of it was not an educational one: he was no philosopher,nor trained observer. He remembered London—to her the capitalof the world— chiefly by its restaurants, Cairo on account ofits execrable golf- links. He lived only to enjoy himself. His viewwas that of a boy, hearty and healthy and seeking only excitementand mischief. She had heard his tales of his brief career atHarvard, of the reunions at Henry's American bar, of the Futurity,the Suburban, the Grand Prix, of a yachting cruise which apparentlyhad encountered every form of adventure, from the rescuing of astranded opera-company to the ramming of a slaver's dhow. Theregret with which he spoke of these free days, which was the regretof an exile marooned upon a desert island, excited all her sympathyfor an ill she had never known. His discourteous scorn of thesocial pleasures of the post, from which she herself was excluded,rilled her with speculation. If he could forego these functions,how full and gay she argued his former life must have been. Hisattitude helped her to bear the deprivations more easily. And she,as a loyal child of the army, liked him also because he was no"cracker-box" captain, but a fighter, who had fought with no morbidideas as to the rights or wrongs of the cause, but for the fun offighting.
And one night, after he had been telling the mess of a Filipinoofficer who alone had held back his men and himself, and who atlast died in his arms cursing him, she went to sleep declaring toherself that Lieutenant Ranson was becoming too like the man shehad pictured for her husband than was good for her peace of mind.He had told the story as his tribute to a brave man fighting forhis independence and with such regret that such a one should havedied so miserably, that, to the embarrassment of the mess, thetears rolled down his cheeks. But he wiped them away with hisnapkin as unconcernedly as though they were caused by thepepper-box, and said simply, "He had sporting blood, he had. I'venever felt so bad about anything as I did about that chap. WheneverI think of him standing up there with his back to the cathedral allshot to pieces, but giving us what for until he died, it makes mecry. So," he added, blowing his nose vigorously, "I won't think ofit any more."
Tears are properly a woman's weapon, and when a man makes use ofthem, even in spite of himself, he is taking an advantage over theother sex which is unfair and outrageous. Lieutenant Ranson neverknew the mischief the sympathy he had shown for his enemy caused inthe heart of Mary Cahill, nor that from that moment she loved himdeeply.
The West Point graduates before they answered Ranson's ultimatumsmoked their cigarettes for some time in silence.
"Oh, there's been fighting even at Fort Crockett," said Crosby."In the last two years the men have been ordered out seven times,haven't they, Miss Cahill? When the Indians got out of hand, andtwice after cowboys, and twice after the Red Rider."
"The Red Rider!" protested Ranson; "I don't see anythingexciting in rounding up one miserable horse thief."
"Only they don't round him up," returned Curtis crossly. "That'swhy it's exciting. He's the best in his business. He's held up thestage six times now in a year. Whoever the fellow is, if he's oneman or a gang of men, he's the nerviest road-agent since the daysof Abe Case."
Ranson in his then present mood was inclined toward pessimism."It doesn't take any nerve to hold up a coach," hecontradicted.
Curtis and Crosby snorted in chorus. "That's what you say,"mocked Curtis.
"Well, it doesn't," repeated Ranson. "It's all a game of bluff.The etiquette is that the driver mustn't shoot the road-agent, andthat the road-agent mustn't hurt the driver, and the passengers aretoo scared to move. The moment they see a man rise out of the nightthey throw up their hands. Why, even when a passenger does try topull his gun the others won't let him. Each thinks sure that ifthere's any firing he will be the one to get hurt. And, besides,they don't know how many more men the road agent may have behindhim. I don't—-"
A movement on the part of Miss Cahill caused him to pauseabruptly. Miss Cahill had descended from her throne and wasadvancing to meet the post-trader, who came toward her from theexchange.
"Lightfoot's squaw," he said. "Her baby's worse. She's sent foryou."
Miss Cahill gave a gasp of sympathy, snatched up her hat fromthe counter, and the buffalo robes closed behind her.
Ranson stooped and reached for his sombrero. With the flight ofMiss Cahill his interest in the courage of the Red Rider haddeparted also.
But Crosby appealed to the new-comer, "Cahill, YOU know," hesaid. "We've been talking of the man they call the Red Rider, thechap that wears a red bandanna over his face. Ranson says he hasn'tany nerve. That's not so, is it?"
"I said it didn't take any nerve to hold up a stage," saidRanson; "and it doesn't."
The post-trader halted on his way back to the exchange andrubbed one hand meditatively over the other arm. With him speechwas golden and difficult. After a pause he said: "Oh, he takes hischances."
"Of course he does," cried Crosby, encouragingly. "He takes thechance of being shot by the passengers, and of being caught by theposse and lynched, but this man's got away with it now six times inthe last year. And I say that takes nerve."
"Why, for fifty dollars—-" laughed Ranson.
He checked himself, and glanced over his shoulder at theretreating figure of Cahill. The buffalo robes fell again, and thespurs of the post-trader could be heard jangling over theearth-floor of the exchange.
"For fifty dollars," repeated Ranson, in brisk, businessliketones, "I'll rob the up stage to-night myself!"
Previous knowledge of his moods, the sudden look of mischief inhis eyes and a certain vibration in his voice caused the twolieutenants to jump simultaneously to their feet. "Ranson!" theyshouted.
Ranson laughed mockingly. "Oh, I'm bored to death," he cried."What will you bet I don't?"
He had risen with them, but, without waiting for their answer,ran to where his horse stood at the open door. He sank on his kneesand began tugging violently at the stirrup-straps. The twoofficers, their eyes filled with concern, pursued him across theroom. With Cahill twenty feet away, they dared not raise theirvoices, but in pantomime they beckoned him vigorously to return.Ranson came at once, flushed and smiling, holding a hoodedarmy-stirrup in each hand. "Never do to have them see these!" hesaid. He threw the stirrups from him, behind the row of hogsheads."I'll ride in the stirrup-straps!" He still spoke in the same low,brisk tone.
Crosby seized him savagely by the arm. "No, you won't!" hehissed. "Look here, Ranson. Listen to me; for Heaven's sake don'tbe an ass! They'll shoot you, you'll be killed—-"
—"And court-martialed," panted Curtis.
"You'll go to Leavenworth for the rest of your life!"
Ranson threw off the detaining hand, and ran behind the counter.From a lower shelf he snatched a red bandanna kerchief. Fromanother he dragged a rubber poncho, and buttoned it high about histhroat. He picked up the steel shears which lay upon the counter,and snipping two holes in the red kerchief, stuck it under the brimof his sombrero. It fell before his face like a curtain. From hisneck to his knees the poncho concealed his figure. All that wasvisible of him was his eyes, laughing through the holes in the redmask.
"Behold the Red Rider!" he groaned. "Hold up your hands!"
He pulled the kerchief from his face and threw the poncho overhis arm. "Do you see these shears?" he whispered. "I'm going tohold up the stage with 'em. No one ever fires at a road agent. Theyjust shout, 'Don't shoot, colonel, and I'll come down.' I'm goingto bring 'em down with these shears."
Crosby caught Curtis by the arm, laughing eagerly. "Come to thestables, quick," he cried. "We'll get twenty troopers after himbefore he can go a half mile." He turned on Ranson with atriumphant chuckle. "You'll not be dismissed this regiment, if Ican help it," he cried.
Ranson gave an ugly laugh, like the snarl of a puppy over hisbone. "If you try to follow me, or interfere with me, LieutenantCrosby," he said, "I'll shoot you and your troopers!"
"With a pair of shears?" jeered Crosby.
"No, with the gun I've got in my pocket. Now you listen to me.I'm not going to use that gun on any stage filled with women,driven by a man seventy years old, but—and I mean it—ifyou try to stop me, I'll use it on you. I'm going to show you howanyone can bluff a stage full with a pair of tin shears and a redmask for a kicker. And I'll shoot the man that tries to stopme."
Ranson sprang to his horse's side, and stuck his toe into theempty stirrup-strap; there was a scattering of pebbles, a scurry ofhoofs, and the horse and rider became a gray blot in themoonlight.
The two lieutenants stood irresolute. Under his breath Crosbywas swearing fiercely. Curtis stood staring out of the opendoor.
"Will he do it?" he asked.
"Of course he'll do it."
Curtis crossed the room and dropped into a chair. "Andwhat—what had we better do?" he asked. For some time theother made no answer. His brows were knit, and he tramped the room,scowling at the floor. Then with an exclamation of alarm he steppedlightly to the door of the exchange and threw back the curtain. Inthe other room, Cahill stood at its furthest corner, scooping sugarfrom a hogshead.
Crosby's scowl relaxed, and, reseating himself at the table, herolled a cigarette. "Now, if he pulls it off," he whispered, "andgets back to quarters, then—it's a case of all's well. But,if he's shot, or caught, and it all comes out, then it's up to usto prove he meant it as a practical joke."
"It isn't our duty to report it now, is it?" asked Curtis,nervously.
"Certainly not! If he chooses to make an ass of himself, that'snone of our business. Unless he's found out, we have heard nothingand seen nothing. If he's caught, then we've got to stick by him,and testify that he did it on a bet. He'll probably win out allright. There is nobody expected on the stage but that Miss Post andher aunt. And the driver's an old hand. He knows better than tofight."
"There may be some cowboys coming up."
"That's Ranson's lookout. As Cahill says, the Red Rider takeshis chances."
"I wish there was something we could do now," Curtis protested,petulantly. "I suppose we've just got to sit still and wait forhim?"
"That's all," answered Crosby, and then leaped to his feet."What's that?" he asked. Out on the parade ground, a bugle-callbroke suddenly on the soft spring air. It rang like an alarm. Thenoise of a man running swiftly sounded on the path, and before theofficers reached the doorway Sergeant Clancey entered it, andhalted at attention.
"The colonel's orders," panted the sergeant, "and thelieutenant's are to take twenty men from G and H Troops, and rideto Kiowa to escort the paymaster."
"The paymaster!" Crosby cried. "He's not coming tillThursday."
"He's just telegraphed from Kiowa City, lieutenant. He's aheadof his schedule. He wants an escort for the money. He left Kiowa afew minutes ago in the up stage."
The two lieutenants sprang forward, and shouted in chorus: "Thestage? He is in the stage!"
Sergeant Clancey stared dubiously from one officer to the other.He misunderstood their alarm, and with the privilege of longservice attempted to allay it. "The lieutenant knows nothing canhappen to the stage till it reaches the buttes," he said. "Therehas never been a hold-up in the open, and the escort can reach thebuttes long before the stage gets here." He coughed consciously."Colonel's orders are to gallop, lieutenant."
As the two officers rode knee to knee through the night, the payescort pounding the trail behind them, Crosby leaned from hissaddle. "He has only ten minutes' start of us," he whispered. "Weare certain to overtake him. We can't help but do it. We must doit. We MUST! If we don't, and he tries to stop Colonel Patten andthe pay-roll, he'll die. Two women and a deaf driver,that—that's a joke. But an Indian fighter like old Patten,and Uncle Sam's money, that means a finish fight-and his death anddisgrace." He turned savagely in his saddle. "Close up there!" hecommanded. "Stop that talking. You keep your breath till I wantit—and ride hard."
After the officers had galloped away from the messroom, andSergeant Clancey had hurried after them to the stables, thepost-trader entered it from the exchange and barred the door, whichthey in their haste had left open. As he did this, the closeobserver, had one been present, might have noted that though hismovements were now alert and eager, they no longer were betrayed byany sound, and that his spurs had ceased to jangle. Yet that hepurposed to ride abroad was evident from the fact that from a farcorner he dragged out a heavy saddle. He flung this upon thecounter, and swiftly stripped it of its stirrups. These, with morethan necessary care, he hid away upon the highest shelf of theshop, while from the lower shelves he snatched a rubber poncho anda red kerchief. For a moment, as he unbarred the door, thepost-trader paused and cast a quick glance before and behind him,and then the door closed and there was silence. A minute later itwas broken by the hoofs of a horse galloping swiftly along thetrail to Kiowa City.
That winter Miss Post had been going out a great deal more thanwas good for her, and when the spring came she broke down. Thefamily doctor recommended Aiken, but an aunt of Miss Post's, Mrs.Truesdall, had been at Farmington with Mrs. "Colonel" Bolland, andurged visiting her instead. The doctor agreed that the climaticconditions existing at Fort Crockett were quite as health-giving asthose at Aiken, and of the two the invalid decided that theregimental post would be more of a novelty.
So she and her aunt and the maid changed cars twice afterleaving St. Louis and then staged it to Kiowa City, where, whilewaiting for "Pop" Henderson's coach to Fort Crockett, they dinedwith him on bacon, fried bread, and alkali water tinged withcoffee.
It was at Kiowa City, a city of four hundred houses onblue-print paper and six on earth, that Miss Post first feltcertain that she was going to enjoy her visit. It was there shefirst saw, at large and on his native heath, a blanket Indian. Hewas a tall, beautiful youth, with yellow ochre on his thin, brownarms and blue ochre on his cheekbones, who sat on "Pop's" steps,gazing impassively at the stars. Miss Post came out with her maidand fell over him. The maid screamed. Miss Post said: "I beg yourpardon"; and the brave expressed his contempt by gutteralmutterings and by moving haughtily away. Miss Post was then gladthat she had not gone to Aiken. For the twelve-mile drive throughthe moonlit buttes to Fort Crockett there was, besides the women,one other passenger. He was a travelling salesman of the HancockUniform Company, and was visiting Fort Crockett to measure theofficers for their summer tunics. At dinner he passed Miss Post thecondensed milk-can, and in other ways made himself agreeable. Heinformed her aunt that he was in the Military Equipment Departmentof the Army, but, much to that young woman's distress, addressedmost of his remarks to the maid, who, to his taste, was the mostattractive of the three.
"I take it," he said genially to Miss Post, "that you and theyoung lady are sisters."
"No," said Miss Post, "we are not related."
It was eight o'clock, and the moon was full in the heavens when"Pop" Henderson hoisted them into the stage and burdened hisdriver, Hunk Smith, with words of advice which were intended solelyfor the ears of the passengers.
"You want to be careful of that near wheeler, Hunk," he said,"or he'll upset you into a gully. An' in crossing the second ford,bear to the right; the water's running high, and it may carry youseall down stream. I don't want that these ladies should be drownedin any stage of mine. An' if the Red Rider jumps you don't put upno bluff, but sit still. The paymaster's due in a night or two, an'I've no doubt at all but that the Rider's laying for him. But ifyou tell him that there's no one inside but womenfolk and a tailor,mebbe he won't hurt youse. Now, ladies," he added, putting his headunder the leather flap, as though unconscious that all he had saidhad already reached them, "without wishing to make you uneasy, Iwould advise your having your cash and jewelry ready in your hands.With road- agents it's mostly wisest to do what they say, an' to doit quick. Ef you give 'em all you've got, they sometimes go awaywithout spilling blood, though, such being their habits, naturallydisappointed." He turned his face toward the shrinking figure ofthe military tailor. "You, being an army man," he said, "will ofcourse want to protect the ladies, but you mustn't do it. You mustkeep cool. Ef you pull your gun, like as not you'll all get killed.But I'm hoping for the best. Good-night all, an' a pleasantjourney."
The stage moved off with many creaks and many cracks of thewhip, which in part smothered Hunk Smith's laughter. But after thefirst mile, he, being a man with feelings and a family, pulled themules to a halt.
The voice of the drummer could instantly be heard calling loudlyfrom the darkness of the stage: "Don't open those flaps. If theysee us, they'll fire!"
"I wanted you folks to know," said Hunk Smith, leaning from thebox- seat, "that that talk of Pop's was all foolishness. You're assafe on this trail as in a Pullman palace-car. That was just hisway. Pop will have his joke. You just go to sleep now, if you can,and trust to me. I'll get you there by eleven o'clock or break atrace. Breakin' a trace is all the danger there is, anyway," headded, cheerfully, "so don't fret."
Miss Post could not resist saying to Mrs. Truesdall: "I told youhe was joking."
The stage had proceeded for two hours. Sometimes it dropped withlocked wheels down sheer walls of clay, again it was dragged,careening drunkenly, out of fathomless pits. It pitched and tossed,slid and galloped, danced grotesquely from one wheel to another,from one stone to another, recoiled out of ruts, butted againstrocks, and swept down and out of swollen streams that gurgledbetween the spokes.
"If ever I leave Fort Crockett," gasped Mrs. Truesdall betweenjolts, "I shall either wait until they build a railroad orwalk."
They had all but left the hills, and were approaching the levelprairie. That they might see the better the flaps had been rolledup, and the soft dry air came freely through the open sides. Themules were straining over the last hill. On either side only a fewof the buttes were still visible. They stood out in the moonlightas cleanly cut as the bows of great battleships. The trail at lastwas level. Mrs. Truesdall's eyes closed. Her head fell forward. ButMiss Post, weary as she was in body, could not sleep. To her thenight-ride was full of strange and wonderful mysteries. Gratefullyshe drank in the dry scent of the prairie-grass, and, holding bythe frame of the window, leaned far out over the wheel. As she didso, a man sprang into the trail from behind a wall of rock, andshouted hoarsely. He was covered to his knees with a black mantle.His face was hidden by a blood-red mask.
"Throw up your hands!" he commanded. There was a sharp creakingas the brakes locked, and from the driver's seat an amazed oath.The stage stopped with a violent jerk, and Mrs. Truesdall pitchedgently forward toward her niece.
"I really believe I was asleep, Helen," she murmured. "What arewe waiting for?"
"I think we are held up," said Miss Post.
The stage had halted beyond the wall of rock, and Miss Postlooked behind it, but no other men were visible, only a horse withhis bridle drawn around a stone. The man in the mask advanced uponthe stage, holding a weapon at arm's-length. In the moonlight itflashed and glittered evilly. The man was but a few feet from MissPost, and the light fell full upon her. Of him she could see onlytwo black eyes that flashed as evilly as his weapon. For a periodof suspense, which seemed cruelly prolonged, the man stoodmotionless, then he lowered his weapon. When he opened his lips themask stuck to them, and his words came from behind it, broken andsmothered. "Sorry to trouble you, miss," the mask said, "but I wantthat man beside you to get out."
Miss Post turned to the travelling salesman. "He wants you toget out," she said.
"Wants me!" exclaimed the drummer. "I'm not armed, you know." Ina louder voice he protested, faintly: "I say, I'm not armed."
"Come out!" demanded the mask.
The drummer precipitated himself violently over the knees of theladies into the road below, and held his hands high above him. "I'mnot armed," he said; "indeed I'm not."
"Stand over there, with your back to that rock," the maskordered. For a moment the road agent regarded him darkly, pointinghis weapon meditatively at different parts of the salesman'sperson. He suggested a butcher designating certain choice cuts. Thedrummer's muscles jerked under the torture as though his anatomywere being prodded with an awl.
"I want your watch," said the mask. The drummer reached eagerlyfor his waistcoat.
"Hold up your hands!" roared the road agent. "By the eternal, ifyou play any rough-house tricks on me I'll—" He flourishedhis weapon until it flashed luminously.
An exclamation from Hunk Smith, opportunely uttered, saved thedrummer from what was apparently instant annihilation. "Say,Rider," cried the driver, "I can't hold my arms up no longer. I'mgoing to put 'em down. But you leave me alone, an' I'll leave youalone. Is that a bargain?" The shrouded figure whirled his weaponupon the speaker. "Have I ever stopped you before, Hunk?" hedemanded.
Hunk, at this recognition of himself as a public character,softened instantly. "I dunno whether 'twas you or one of your gang,but—"
"Well, you've still got your health, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Then keep quiet," snarled the mask.
In retort Hunk Smith muttered audible threatenings, but sankobediently into an inert heap. Only his eyes, under cover of hissombrero, roamed restlessly. They noted the McClellan saddle on theRed Rider's horse, the white patch on its near fore-foot, the emptystirrup-straps, and at a great distance, so great that the eyesonly of a plainsman could have detected it, a cloud of dust, orsmoke, or mist, that rode above the trail and seemed to be movingswiftly down upon them.
At the sight, Hunk shifted the tobacco in his cheek andnervously crossed his knees, while a grin of ineffable cunningpassed across his face.
With his sombrero in his hand, the Red Rider stepped to thewheel of the stage. As he did so, Miss Post observed that above theline of his kerchief his hair was evenly and carefully parted inthe middle.
"I'm afraid, ladies," said the road agent, "that I have delayedyou unnecessarily. It seems that I have called up the wrongnumber." He emitted a reassuring chuckle, and, fanning himself withhis sombrero, continued speaking in a tone of polite irony: "TheWells, Fargo messenger is the party I am laying for. He's comingover this trail with a package of diamonds. That's what I'm after.At first I thought 'Fighting Bob' over there by the rock might haveit on him; but he doesn't act like any Wells, Fargo Express agent Ihave ever tackled before, and I guess the laugh's on me. I seem tohave been weeping over the wrong grave." He replaced his sombreroon his head at a rakish angle, and waved his hand. "Ladies, you areat liberty to proceed."
But instantly he stepped forward again, and brought his face soclose to the window that they could see the whites of his eyes."Before we part," he murmured, persuasively, "you wouldn't mindleaving me something as a souvenir, would you?" He turned theskull-like openings of the mask full upon Miss Post.
Mrs. Truesdall exclaimed, hysterically: "Why, certainly not!"she cried. "Here's everything I have, except what's sewn inside mywaist, where I can't possibly get at it. I assure you I cannot. Theproprietor of that hotel told us we'd probably—meet you, andso I have everything ready." She thrust her two hands through thewindow. They held a roll of bills, a watch, and her rings
Miss Post laughed in an ecstasy of merriment "Oh, no, aunt," sheprotested, "don't. No, not at all. The gentleman only wants akeepsake. Something to remember us by. Isn't that it?" she asked.She regarded the blood-red mask steadily with a brilliantsmile.
The road agent did not at once answer. At her words he hadstarted back with such sharp suspicion that one might have thoughthe meditated instant flight. Through the holes in his mask he nowglared searchingly at Miss Post, but still in silence.
"I think this will satisfy him," said Miss Post.
Out of the collection in her aunt's hands she picked a silvercoin and held it forward. "Something to keep as a pocket-piece,"she said, mockingly, "to remind you of your kindness to three lonefemales in distress."
Still silent, the road agent reached for the money, and thengrowled at her in a tone which had suddenly become gruff andoverbearing. It suggested to Miss Post the voice of the head of thefamily playing Santa Claus for the children. "And now you, miss,"he demanded.
Miss Post took another coin from the heap, studied itsinscription, and passed it through the window. "This one is fromme," she said. "Mine is dated 1901. The moonlight," she added,leaning far forward and smiling out at him, "makes it quite easy tosee the date; as easy," she went on, picking her words, "as it isto see your peculiar revolver and the coat-of-arms on your ring."She drew her head back." Good-night," she cooed, sweetly.
The Red Rider jumped from the door. An exclamation which mighthave been a laugh or an oath was smothered by his mask. He turnedswiftly upon the salesman. "Get back into the coach," he commanded."And you, Hunk," he called, "if you send a posse after me, nextnight I ketch you out here alone you'll lose the top of yourhead."
The salesman scrambled into the stage through the door oppositethe one at which the Red Rider was standing, and the road agentagain raised his sombrero with a sweeping gesture worthy ofD'Artagnan. "Good-night, ladies," he said.
"Good-night, sir," Mrs. Truesdall answered, grimly, but exudinga relieved sigh. Then, her indignation giving her courage, sheleaned from the window and hurled a Parthian arrow. "I must say,"she protested, "I think you might be in a better business."
The road agent waved his hand to the young lady. "Good-by," hesaid.
"Au revoir," said Miss Post, pleasantly.
"Good-by, miss," stammered the road agent,
"I said 'Au revoir,'" repeated Miss Post.
The road agent, apparently routed by these simple words, fledmuttering toward his horse.
Hunk Smith was having trouble with his brake. He kicked at itand, stooping, pulled at it, but the wheels did not move.
Mrs. Truesdall fell into a fresh panic. "What is it now?" shecalled, miserably.
Before he answered, Hunk Smith threw a quick glance toward thecolumn of moving dust. He was apparently reassured.
"The brake," he grunted. "The darned thing's stuck!"
The road agent was tugging at the stone beneath which he hadslipped his bridle. "Can I help?" he asked, politely. But before hereached the stage, he suddenly stopped with an imperative sweep ofhis arm for silence. He stood motionless, his body bent to theground, leaning forward and staring down the trail. Then he sprangupright. "You old fox!" he roared, "you're gaining time, areyou?"
With a laugh he tore free his bridle and threw himself acrosshis horse. His legs locked under it, his hands clasped its mane,and with a cowboy yell he dashed past the stage in the direction ofKiowa City, his voice floating back in shouts of jeering laughter.From behind him he heard Hunk Smith's voice answering his own in acry for "Help!" and from a rapidly decreasing distance the throb ofmany hoofs. For an instant he drew upon his rein, and then, with adefiant chuckle, drove his spurs deep into his horse's side.
Mrs. Truesdall also heard the pounding of many hoofs, as well asHunk Smith's howls for help, and feared a fresh attack. "Oh, whatis it?" she begged
"Soldiers from the fort," Hunk called, excitedly, and againraised his voice in a long, dismal howl.
"Sounds cheery, doesn't it?" said the salesman; "referring tothe soldiers," he explained. It was his first coherent remark sincethe Red Rider had appeared and disappeared.
"Oh, I hope they won't—" began Miss Post, anxiously.
The hoof-beats changed to thunder, and with the pounding on thedry trail came the jangle of stirrups and sling-belts. Then avoice, and the coach was surrounded by dust-covered troopers andhorses breathing heavily. Lieutenant Crosby pulled up beside thewindow of the stage. "Are you there, Colonel Patten?" he panted. Hepeered forward into the stage, but no one answered him. "Is thepaymaster in here?" he demanded.
The voice of Lieutenant Curtis shouted in turn at Hunk Smith."Is the paymaster in there, driver?"
"Paymaster? No!" Hunk roared. "A drummer and three ladies. We'vebeen held up. The Red Rider—" He rose and waved his whip overthe top of the coach. "He went that way. You can ketch himeasy."
Sergeant Clancey and half a dozen troopers jerked at theirbridles. But Crosby, at the window, shouted "Halt!"
"What's your name?" he demanded of the salesman.
"Myers," stammered the drummer. "I'm from the HancockUniform—"
Curtis had spurred his horse beside that of his brother officer."Is Colonel Patten at Kiowa?" he interrupted.
"I can't give you any information as to that," replied Mr.Myers, importantly; "but these ladies and I have just been held upby the Red Rider. If you'll hurry you'll—"
The two officers pulled back their horses from the stage and,leaning from their saddles, consulted in eager whispers. Their menfidgeted with their reins, and stared with amazed eyes at theirofficers. Lieutenant Crosby was openly smiling, "He's got away withit," he whispered. "Patten missed the stage, thank God, and he'smet nothing worse than these women."
"We MUST make a bluff at following him," whispered Curtis.
"Certainly not! Our orders are to report to Colonel Patten, andact as his escort."
"But he's not at Kiowa; that fellow says so."
"He telegraphed the Colonel from Kiowa," returned Crosby. "Howcould he do that if he wasn't there?" He turned upon Hunk Smith."When did you leave Henderson's?" he demanded.
"Seven o'clock," answered Hunk Smith, sulkily. "Say, if youyoung fellows want to catch—"
"And Patten telegraphed at eight," cried Crosby. "That's it. Hereached Kiowa after the stage had gone. Sergeant Clancey!" hecalled.
The Sergeant pushed out from the mass of wondering troopers.
"When did the paymaster say he was leaving Kiowa?"
"Leaving at once, the telegram said," answered Clancey.
"'Meet me with escort before I reach the buttes.' That's themessage I was told to give the lieutenant."
Hunk Smith leaned from the box-seat. "Mebbe Pop's driving himover himself in the buckboard," he volunteered. "Pop often takes'em over that way if they miss the stage."
"That's how it is, of course," cried Crosby. "He's on his waynow in the buckboard."
Hunk Smith surveyed the troopers dismally and shook his head."If he runs up against the Red Rider, it's 'good-by' your pay,boys," he cried.
"Fall in there!" shouted Crosby. "Corporal Tynan, fall out withtwo men and escort these ladies to the fort." He touched his hat toMiss Post, and, with Curtis at his side, sprang into the trail."Gallop! March!" he commanded.
"Do you think he'll tackle the buckboard, too?" whisperedCurtis.
Crosby laughed joyously and drew a long breath of relief.
"No, he's all right now," he answered. "Don't you see, hedoesn't know about Patten or the buckboard. He's probably well onhis way to the post now. I delayed the game at the stage there onpurpose to give him a good start. He's safe by now."
"It was a close call," laughed the other. "He's got to give us adinner for helping him out of this."
"We'd have caught him red-handed," said Crosby, "if we'd beenfive minutes sooner. Lord!" he gasped. "It makes me cold to thinkof it. The men would have shot him off his horse. But what a storyfor those women! I hope I'll be there when they tell it. If Ransoncan keep his face straight, he's a wonder." For some moments theyraced silently neck by neck, and then Curtis again leaned from hissaddle. "I hope he HAS turned back to the post," he said. "Look atthe men how they're keeping watch for him. They're scouts, all ofthem."
"What if they are?" returned Crosby, easily. "Ranson's inuniform— out for a moonlight canter. You can bet a milliondollars he didn't wear his red mask long after he heard uscoming."
"I suppose he'll think we've followed to spoil his fun. You knowyou said we would."
"Yes, he was going to shoot us," laughed Crosby. "I wonder whyhe packs a gun. It's a silly thing to do."
The officers fell apart again, and there was silence over theprairie, save for the creaking of leather and the beat of thehoofs. And then, faint and far away, there came the quick crack ofa revolver, another, and then a fusillade. "My God!" gasped Crosby.He threw himself forwards digging his spurs into his horse, androde as though he were trying to escape from his own men.
No one issued an order, no one looked a question; each, officerand enlisted man, bowed his head and raced to be the first.
The trail was barricaded by two struggling horses and anoverturned buckboard. The rigid figure of a man lay flat upon hisback staring at the moon, another white-haired figure staggeredforward from a rock. "Who goes there?" it demanded.
"United States troops. Is that you, Colonel Patten?"
"Yes."
Colonel Patten's right arm was swinging limply at his side. Withhis left hand he clasped his right shoulder. The blood, black inthe moonlight, was oozing between his fingers.
"We were held up," he said. "He shot the driver and the horses.I fired at him, but he broke my arm. He shot the gun out of myhand. When he reached for the satchel I tried to beat him off withmy left arm, but he threw me into the road. He went thatway—toward Kiowa."
Sergeant Clancey, who was kneeling by the figure in the trail,raised his hand in salute. "Pop Henderson, lieutenant," he said."He's shot through the heart. He's dead."
"He took the money, ten thousand dollars," cried Colonel Patten."He wore a red mask and a rubber poncho. And I saw that he had nostirrups in his stirrup-straps."
Crosby dodged, as though someone had thrown a knife, and thenraised his hand stiffly and heavily.
"Lieutenant Curtis, you will remain here with Colonel Patten,"he ordered. His voice was without emotion. It fell flat and dead."Deploy as skirmishers," he commanded. "G Troop to the fight of thetrail, H Troop to the left. Stop anyone you see—anyone. If hetries to escape, cry 'Halt!' twice and then fire—to kill.Forward! Gallop! March! Toward the post."
"No!" shouted Colonel Patten. "He went toward Kiowa."
Crosby replied in the same dead voice: "He doubled after he leftyou, colonel. He has gone to the post."
Colonel Patten struggled from the supporting arms that held himand leaned eagerly forward. "You know him, then?" he demanded.
"Yes," cried Crosby, "God help him! Spread out there, you, inopen order—and ride like hell!"
Just before the officers' club closed for the night LieutenantRanson came in and, seating himself at the piano, picked out "TheQueen of the Philippine Islands" with one finger. Major Stickneyand others who were playing bridge were considerably annoyed.Ranson then demanded that everyone present should drink his healthin champagne for the reason that it was his birthday and that hewas glad he was alive, and wished everyone else to feel the sameway about it. "Or, for any other reason why," he added generously.This frontal attack upon the whist-players upset the game entirely,and Ranson, enthroned upon the piano-stool, addressed the room. Heheld up a buckskin tobacco-bag decorated with beads.
"I got this down at the Indian village to-night," he said. "Thatold squaw, Red Wing, makes 'em for two dollars. Crosby paid fivedollars for his in New Mexico, and it isn't half as good. What doyou think? I got lost coming back, and went all the way round bythe buttes before I found the trail, and I've only been here sixmonths. They certainly ought to make me chief of scouts."
There was the polite laugh which is granted to any remark madeby the one who is paying for the champagne.
"Oh, that's where you were, was it?" said the post-adjutant,genially. "The colonel sent Clancey after you and Crosby. Clanceyreported that he couldn't find you. So we sent Curtis. They went toact as escort for Colonel Patten and the pay. He's coming upto-night in the stage." Ranson was gazing down into his glass.Before he raised his head he picked several pieces of ice out of itand then drained it.
"The paymaster, hey?" he said. "He's in the stage to-night, ishe?"
"Yes," said the adjutant; and then as the bugle and stamp ofhoofs sounded from the parade outside, "and that's him now, Iguess," he added.
Ranson refilled his glass with infinite care, and then, in spiteof a smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth, emptied itslowly.
There was the jingle of spurs and a measured tramp on theveranda of the club-house, and for the first time in its historyfour enlisted men, carrying their Krags, invaded its portals. Theywere led by Lieutenant Crosby; his face was white under the tan,and full of suffering. The officers in the room received theintrusion in amazed silence. Crosby strode among them, lookingneither to the left nor right, and touched Lieutenant Ranson uponthe shoulder.
"The colonel's orders, Lieutenant Ranson," he said. "You areunder arrest."
Ranson leaned back against the music-rack and placed his glassupon the keyboard. One leg was crossed over the other, and he didnot remove it.
"Then you can't take a joke," he said in a low tone. "You had torun and tell." He laughed and raised his voice so that all in theclub might hear, "What am I arrested for, Crosby?" he asked.
The lines in Crosby's face deepened, and only those who sat nearcould hear him. "You are under arrest for attempting to kill asuperior officer, for the robbery of the governmentpay-train—and for murder."
Ranson jumped to his feet. "My God, Crosby!" he cried.
"Silence! Don't talk!" ordered Crosby. "Come along with me."
The four troopers fell in in rear of Lieutenant Crosby and theirprisoner. He drew a quick, frightened breath, and then, throwingback his shoulders, fell into step, and the six men tramped fromthe club and out into the night.
That night at the post there was little sleep for any one. Thefeet of hurrying orderlies beat upon the parade-ground, the windowsof the Officers' Club blazed defiantly, and from the darkenedquarters of the enlisted men came the sound of voices snarling inviolent vituperation. At midnight, half of Ranson's troop, havingattacked the rest of the regiment with cavalry-boots, were marchedunder arrest to the guard-house. As they passed Ranson's hut, wherehe still paced the veranda, a burning cigarette attesting hiswakefulness, they cheered him riotously. At two o'clock it wasannounced from the hospital that both patients were out of danger;for it had developed that, in his hurried diagnosis, SergeantClancey had located Henderson's heart six inches from where itshould have been.
When one of the men who guarded Ranson reported this good newsthe prisoner said, "Still, I hope they'll hang whoever did it. Theyshouldn't hang a man for being a good shot and let him off becausehe's a bad one."
At the time of the hold-up Mary Cahill had been a half-miledistant from the post at the camp of the Kiowas, where she had gonein answer to the cry of Lightfoot's squaw. When she returned shefound Indian Pete in charge of the exchange. Her father, he toldher, had ridden to the Indian village in search of her. As he spokethe post-trader appeared. "I'm sorry I missed you," his daughtercalled to him.
At the sound Cahill pulled his horse sharply toward the corral."I had a horse-deal on—with the chief," he answered over hisshoulder. "When I got to Lightfoot's tent you had gone."
After he had dismounted, and was coming toward her, she notedthat his right hand was bound in a handkerchief, and exclaimed withapprehension.
"It is nothing," Cahill protested. "I was foolin' with one ofthe new regulation revolvers, with my hand over the muzzle. Ballwent through the palm."
Miss Cahill gave a tremulous cry and caught the injured hand toher lips.
Her father snatched it from her roughly.
"Let go!" he growled. "It serves me right."
A few minutes later Mary Cahill, bearing liniment for herfather's hand, knocked at his bedroom and found it empty. When shepeered from the top of the stairs into the shop-window below shesaw him busily engaged with his one hand buckling thestirrup-straps of his saddle.
When she called, he sprang upright with an oath. He had facedher so suddenly that it sounded as though he had sworn, not insurprise, but at her.
"You startled me," he murmured. His eyes glanced suspiciouslyfrom her to the saddle. "These stirrup-straps—they're tooshort," he announced. "Pete or somebody's been using mysaddle."
"I came to bring you this 'first-aid' bandage for your hand,"said his daughter.
Cahill gave a shrug of impatience.
"My hand's all right," he said; "you go to bed. I've got tobegin taking account of stock."
"To-night?"
"There's no time by day. Go to bed."
For nearly an hour Miss Cahill lay awake listening to her fathermoving about in the shop below. Never before had he spoken roughlyto her, and she, knowing how much the thought that he had done sowould distress him, was herself distressed.
In his lonely vigil on the veranda, Ranson looked from the postdown the hill to where the light still shone from Mary Cahill'swindow. He wondered if she had heard the news, and if it were anythought of him that kept sleep from her.
"You ass! you idiot!" he muttered. "You've worried and troubledher. She believes one of her precious army is a thief and amurderer." He cursed himself picturesquely, but the thought thatshe might possibly be concerned on his account, did not, he found,distress him as greatly as it should. On the contrary, as hewatched the light his heart glowed warmly. And long after the lightwent out he still looked toward the home of the post-trader, hisbrain filled with thoughts of his return to his former life outsidethe army, the old life to which he vowed he would not returnalone.
The next morning Miss Cahill learned the news when the juniorofficer came to mess and explained why Ranson was not with them.Her only comment was to at once start for his quarters with hisbreakfast in a basket. She could have sent it by Pete, but, sheargued, when one of her officers was in trouble that was not thetime to turn him over to the mercies of a servant. No, she assuredherself, it was not because the officer happened to be Ranson. Shewould have done as much, or as little, for any one of them. WhenCurtis and Haines were ill of the grippe, had she not carried themmany good things of her own making?
But it was not an easy sacrifice. As she crossed theparade-ground she recognized that over-night Ranson's hut, where hewas a prisoner in his own quarters, had become to the post thestorm-centre of interest, and to approach it was to invite theattention of the garrison. At head-quarters a group of officersturned and looked her way, there was a flutter among the frocks onMrs. Bolland's porch, and the enlisted men, smoking their pipes onthe rail of the barracks, whispered together. When she reachedRanson's hut over four hundred pairs of eyes were upon her, and hercheeks were flushing. Ranson came leaping to the gate, and liftedthe basket from her arm as though he were removing an opera-cloak.He set it upon the gate- post, and nervously clasped the palings ofthe gate with both hands. He had not been to bed, but that factalone could not explain the strangeness of his manner. Never beforehad she seen him disconcerted or abashed.
"You shouldn't have done it," he stammered. "Indeed, indeed, youare much too good. But you shouldn't have come."
His voice shook slightly.
"Why not?" asked Mary Cahill. "I couldn't let you gohungry."
"You know it isn't that," he said; "it's your coming here atall. Why, only three of the fellows have been near me this morning.And they only came from a sense of duty. I know they did—Icould feel it. You shouldn't have come here. I'm not a properperson; I'm an outlaw. You might think this was a pest-house, youmight think I was a leper. Why, those Stickney girls have beenwatching me all morning through a field-glass." He clasped andunclasped his fingers around the palings. "They believe I did it,"he protested, with the bewildered accents of a child. "They allbelieve it."
Miss Cahill laughed. The laugh was quieting and comforting. Itbrought him nearer to earth, and her next remark brought him stillfurther.
"Have you had any breakfast?" she asked.
"Breakfast!" stammered Ranson. "No. The guard brought some, butI couldn't eat it. This thing has taken the life out of me—tothink sane, sensible people—my own people—could believethat I'd steal, that I'd kill a man for money."
"Yes, I know," said Miss Cahill soothingly; "but you've not hadany sleep, and you need your coffee." She lifted the lid of thebasket. "It's getting cold," she said. "Don't you worry about whatpeople think. You must remember you're a prisoner now under arrest.You can't expect the officers to run over here as freely as theyused to. What do you want?" she laughed. "Do you think the colonelshould parade the band and give you a serenade?" For a momentRanson stared at her dully, and then his sense of proportionreturned to him. He threw back his head and laughed with herjoyfully.
From verandas, barracks, and headquarters, the four hundredpairs of eyes noted this evidence of heartlessness with variedemotions. But, unmindful of them, Ranson now leaned forward, theeager, searching look coming back into his black eyes. They were soclose to Mary Cahill's that she drew away. He dropped his voice toa whisper and spoke swiftly.
"Miss Cahill, whatever happens to me I won't forget this. Iwon't forget your coming here and throwing heart into me. You werethe only one who did. I haven't asked you if you believe thatI—"
She raised her eyes reproachfully and smiled. "You know youdon't have to do that," she said.
The prisoner seized the palings as though he meant to pull apartthe barrier between them. He drew a long breath like one inhaling adraught of clean morning air.
"No," he said, his voice ringing, "I don't have to do that."
He cast a swift glance to the left and right. The sentry'sbayonet was just disappearing behind the corner of the hut. To thefour hundred other eyes around the parade-ground LieutenantRanson's attitude suggested that he was explaining to Cahill'sdaughter what he wanted for his luncheon. His eyes held her asfirmly as though the palings he clasped were her two hands.
"Mary," he said, and the speaking of her name seemed to stop thebeating of his heart. "Mary," he whispered, as softly as though hewere beginning a prayer, "you're the bravest, the sweetest, thedearest girl in all the world. And I've known it for months, andnow you must know. And there'll never be any other girl in my lifebut you."
Mary Cahill drew away from him in doubt and wonder.
"I didn't mean to tell you just yet," he whispered, "but nowthat I've seen you I can't help it. I knew it last night when Istood back there and watched your windows, and couldn't think ofthis trouble, nor of anything else, but just you. And you've got topromise me, if I get out of this all right—youmust—must promise me—"
Mary Cahill's eyes, as she raised them to his, were moist andglowing. They promised him with a great love and tenderness. But atthe sight Ranson protested wildly.
"No," he whispered, "you mustn't promise—anything. Ishouldn't have asked it. After I'm out of this, after thecourt-martial, then you've got to promise that you'll never, neverleave me."
Miss Cahill knit her hands together and turned away her head.The happiness in her heart rose to her throat like a great melodyand choked her. Before her, exposed in the thin spring sunshine,was the square of ugly brown cottages, the bare parade-ground, inits centre Trumpeter Tyler fingering his bugle, and beyond on everyside an ocean of blackened prairie. But she saw nothing of this.She saw instead a beautiful world opening its arms to her, a worldsmiling with sunshine, glowing with color, singing with love andcontent.
She turned to him with all that was in her heart showing in herface.
"Don't!" he begged, tremblingly, "don't answer. I couldn't bearit— if you said 'no' to me." He jerked his head toward themen who guarded him. "Wait until I'm tried, and not in disgrace."He shook the gate between them savagely as though it actually heldhim a prisoner.
Mary Cahill raised her head proudly.
"You have no right. You've hurt me," she whispered. "You hurtme."
"Hurt you?" he cried.
She pressed her hands together. It was impossible to tell him,it was impossible to speak of what she felt; of the pride, of thetrust and love, to disclose this new and wonderful thing while thegate was between them, while the sentries paced on either side,while the curious eyes of the garrison were fastened upon her.
"Oh, can't you see?" she whispered. "As though I cared for acourt- martial! I KNOW you. You are just the same. You are justwhat you have always been to me—what you always will be tome."
She thrust her hand toward him and he seized it in both of his,and then released it instantly, and, as though afraid of his ownself- control, backed hurriedly from her, and she turned and walkedrapidly away.
Captain Carr, who had been Ranson's captain in the Philippines,and who was much his friend, had been appointed to act as hiscounsel. When later that morning he visited his client to lay out aline of defence he found Ranson inclined to treat the danger whichthreatened him with the most arrogant flippancy. He had never seenhim in a more objectionable mood.
"You can call the charge 'tommy-rot' if you like," Carrprotested, sharply. "But, let me tell you that's not the view anyone else takes of it, and if you expect the officers of thecourt-martial and the civil authorities to take that view of ityou've got to get down to work and help me prove that it IS 'tommyrot.' That Miss Post, as soon as she got here, when she thought itwas only a practical joke, told them that the road agent threatenedher with a pair of shears. Now, Crosby and Curtis will testify thatyou took a pair of shears from Cahill's, and from what Miss Postsaw of your ring she can probably identify that, too;so—"
"Oh, we concede the shears," declared Ranson, waving his handgrandly. "We admit the first hold-up."
"The devil we do!" returned Carr. "Now, as your counsel, Iadvise nothing of the sort."
"You advise me to lie?"
"Sir!" exclaimed Carr. "A plea of not guilty is only a legalform. When you consider that the first hold-up in itself is enoughto lose you your commission—"
"Well, it's MY commission," said Ranson. "It was only a sillyjoke, anyway. And the War Department must have some sense of humoror it wouldn't have given me a commission in the first place. Ofcourse, we'll admit the first hold-up, but we won't stand for thesecond one. I had no more to do with that than with the Whitechapelmurders."
"How are we to prove that?" demanded Carr. "Where's your alibi?Where were you after the first hold-up?"
"I was making for home as fast as I could cut," said Ranson. Hesuddenly stopped in his walk up and down the room and confrontedhis counsel sternly. "Captain," he demanded, "I wish you toinstruct me on a point of law."
Carr's brow relaxed. He was relieved to find that Ranson hadawakened to the seriousness of the charges against him.
"That's what I'm here for," he said, encouragingly.
"Well, captain," said Ranson, "if an officer is under arrest asI am and confined to his quarters, is he or is he not allowed tosend to the club for a bottle of champagne?"
"Really, Ranson!" cried the captain, angrily, "you areimpossible."
"I only want to celebrate," said Ranson, meekly. "I'm a veryhappy man; I'm the happiest man on earth. I want to ride across theprairie shooting off both guns and yelling like a cowboy. Insteadof which I am locked up indoors and have to talk to you about ahighway robbery which does not amuse me, which does not concernme—and of which I know nothing and care less. Now, YOU aredetailed to prove me innocent. That's your duty, and you ought todo your duty, But don't drag me in. I've got much more importantthings to think about."
Bewilderment, rage, and despair were written upon the face ofthe captain.
"Ranson!" he roared. "Is this a pose, or are you mad? Can't youunderstand that you came very near to being hanged for murder andthat you are in great danger of going to jail for theft? Let me putbefore you the extremely unpleasant position in which you have beenass enough to place yourself. You don't quite seem to grasp it. Youtell two brother-officers that you are going to rob the stage. Todo so you disguise yourself in a poncho and a red handkerchief, andyou remove the army-stirrups from your stirrup-leathers. You thendo rob this coach, or at least hold it up, and you are recognized.A few minutes later, in the same trail and in the same directionyou have taken, there is a second hold-up, this time of thepaymaster. The man who robs the paymaster wears a poncho and a redkerchief, and he has no stirrups in his stirrup-leathers. The twohold-ups take place within a half-mile of each other, within fiveminutes of each other. Now, is it reasonable to believe that lastnight two men were hiding in the buttes intent upon robbery, eachin an army poncho, each wearing a red bandanna handkerchief, andeach riding without stirrups? Between believing in such a strangecoincidence and that you did it, I'll be hanged if I don't believeyou did it."
"I don't blame you," said Ranson. "What can I do to set yourmind at rest?"
"Well, tell me exactly what persons knew that you meant to holdup the stage."
"Curtis and Crosby; no one else."
"Not even Cahill?"
"No, Cahill came in just before I said I would stop the stage,but I remember particularly that before I spoke I waited for him toget back to the exchange."
"And Crosby tells me," continued Carr, "that the instant you hadgone he looked into the exchange and saw Cahill at the farthestcorner from the door. He could have heard nothing."
"If you ask me, I think you've begun at the wrong end," saidRanson. "If I were looking for the Red Rider I'd search for him inKiowa City."
"Why?"
"Because, at this end no one but a few officers knew that thepaymaster was coming, while in Kiowa everybody in the town knew it,for they saw him start. It would be very easy for one of thosecowboys to ride ahead and lie in wait for him in the buttes. Thereare several tough specimens in Kiowa. Any one of them would rob aman for twenty dollars—let alone ten thousand. There's 'Abe'Fisher and Foster King, and the Chase boys, and I believe old 'Pop'Henderson himself isn't above holding up one of his ownstages."
"He's above shooting himself in the lungs," said Carr."Nonsense. No, I am convinced that someone followed you from thispost, and perhaps Cahill can tell us who that was. I sent for himthis morning, and he's waiting at my quarters now. Suppose I askhim to step over here, so that we can discuss it together."
Before he answered, Ranson hesitated, with his eyes on theground. He had no way of knowing whether Mary Cahill had told herfather anything of what he had said to her that morning. But if shehad done so, he did not want to meet Cahill in the presence of athird party for the first time since he had learned the news.
"I'll tell you what I wish you would do," he said. "I wish you'dlet me see Cahill first, by myself. What I want to see him abouthas nothing to do with the hold-up," he added. "It concerns only ustwo, but I'd like to have it out of the way before we consult himas a witness."
Carr rose doubtfully. "Why, certainly," he said; "I'll send himover, and when you're ready for me step out on the porch and call.I'll be sitting on my veranda. I hope you've had no quarrel withCahill—I mean I hope this personal matter is nothing thatwill prejudice him against you."
Ranson smiled. "I hope not, too," he said. "No, we've notquarrelled- -yet," he added.
Carr still lingered. "Cahill is like to be a very importantwitness for the other side—"
"I doubt it," said Ranson, easily. "Cahill's a close-mouthedchap, but when he does talk he talks to the point and he'll tellthe truth. That can't hurt us."
As Cahill crossed the parade-ground from Captain Carr's quarterson his way to Ranson's hut his brain was crowded swiftly withdoubts, memories, and resolves. For him the interview held noalarms. He had no misgivings as to its outcome. For his daughter'ssake he was determined that he himself must not be disgraced in hereyes and that to that end Ranson must be sacrificed. It was to makea lady of her, as he understood what a lady should be, that on sixmoonlit raids he had ventured forth in his red mask and robbed theKiowa stage. That there were others who roamed abroad in thedisguise of the Red Rider he was well aware. There were nights thestage was held up when he was innocently busy behind his counter intouch with the whole garrison. Of these nights he made much. Theywere alibis furnished by his rivals. They served to keep suspicionfrom himself, and he, working for the same object, wasindefatigable in proclaiming that all the depredations of the RedRider showed the handiwork of one and the same individual.
"He comes from Kiowa of course," he would point out. "Somefeller who lives where the stage starts, and knows when thepassengers carry money. You don't hear of him holding up a stagefull of recruits or cow-punchers. It's always the drummers and themine directors that the Red Rider lays for. How does he knowthey're in the stage if he don't see 'em start from Kiowa? Ask'Pop' Henderson. Ask 'Abe' Fisher. Mebbe they know more than they'dcare to tell."
The money which at different times Cahill had taken from theKiowa stage lay in a New York bank, and the law of limitation madeit now possible for him to return to that city and claim it.Already his savings were sufficient in amount to support both hisdaughter and himself in one of those foreign cities, of which shehad so often told him and for which he knew she hungered. And forthe last five years he had had no other object in living than tofeed her wants. Through some strange trick of the mind heremembered suddenly and vividly a long-forgotten scene in the backroom of McTurk's, when he was McTurk's bouncer. The night before agirl had killed herself in this same back room; she made the thirdwho had done so in the month. He recalled the faces of thereporters eyeing McTurk in cold distaste as that terror of theBowery whimpered before them on his knees. "But my daughters willread it," he had begged. "Suppose they believe I'm what you callme. Don't go and give me a bad name to them, gentlemen. It ain't myfault the girl's died here. You wouldn't have my daughters thinkI'm to blame for that? They're ladies, my daughters, they're justout of the convent, and they don't know that there is such women inthe world as come to this place. And I can't have 'em turnedagainst their old pop. For God's sake, gentlemen, don't let mygirls know!"
Cahill remembered the contempt he had felt for his employer ashe pulled him to his feet, but now McTurk's appeal seemed just andnatural. His point of view was that of the loving and considerateparent. In Cahill's mind there was no moral question involved. Ifto make his girl rich and a lady, and to lift her out of the lifeof the Exchange, was a sin the sin was his own and he was willingto "stand for it." And, like McTurk, he would see that the sin ofthe father was not visited upon the child. Ranson was rich,foolishly, selfishly rich; his father was a United States Senatorwith influence enough, and money enough, to fight the law—tobuy his son out of jail. Sooner than his daughter should know thather father was one of those who sometimes wore the mask of the RedRider, Ranson, for all he cared, could go to jail, or to hell. Withthis ultimatum in his mind, Cahill confronted his would-beson-in-law with a calm and assured countenance.
Ranson greeted him with respectful deference, and while Cahillseated himself, Ranson, chatting hospitably, placed cigars andglasses before him. He began upon the subject that touched him themost nearly.
"Miss Cahill was good enough to bring up my breakfast thismorning," he said. "Has she told you of what I said to her?"
Cahill shook his head. "No, I haven't seen her. We've beentaking account of stock all morning."
"Then—then you've heard nothing from her about me?" saidRanson.
The post trader raised his head in surprise. "No. Captain Carrspoke to me about your arrest, and then said you wanted to see mefirst about something private." The post trader fixed Ranson withhis keen, unwavering eyes. "What might that be?" he asked.
"Well, it doesn't matter now," stammered Ranson; "I'll waituntil Miss Cahill tells you."
"Any complaint about the food?" inquired the post trader.
Ranson laughed nervously. "No, it's not that," he said. He rose,and, to protect what Miss Cahill evidently wished to remain asecret, changed the subject. "You see you've lived in these partsso long, Mr. Cahill," he explained, "and you know so many people, Ithought maybe you could put me on the track or give me some hint asto which of that Kiowa gang really did rob the paymaster." Ransonwas pulling the cork from the whiskey bottle, and when he asked thequestion Cahill pushed his glass from him and shook his head.Ranson looked up interrogatively and smiled. "You mean you think Idid it myself?" he asked.
"I didn't understand from Captain Carr," the post trader beganin heavy tones, "that it's my opinion you're after. He said I mightbe wanted to testify who was present last night in my store."
"Certainly, that's all we want," Ranson answered, genially. "Ionly thought you might give me a friendly pointer or two on theoutside. And, of course, if it's your opinion I did the deed wecertainly don't want your opinion. But that needn't prevent yourtaking a drink with me, need it? Don't be afraid. I'm not trying tocorrupt you. And I'm not trying to poison a witness for the otherfellows, either. Help yourself."
Cahill stretched out his left hand. His right remained hidden inthe side pocket of his coat. "What's the matter with your righthand?" Ranson asked. "Are you holding a gun on me? Really, Mr.Cahill, you're not taking any chances, are you?" Ranson gazed aboutthe room as though seeking an appreciative audience. "He's such animportant witness," he cried, delightedly, "that first he's afraidI'll poison him and he won't drink with me, and now he covers mewith a gun."
Reluctantly, Cahill drew out his hand. "I was putting the bridleon my pony last night," he said. "He bit me."
Ranson exclaimed sympathetically, "Oh, that's too bad," he said."Well, you know you want to be careful. A horse's teeth really arepoisonous." He examined his own hands complacently. "Now, if I hada bandage like that on my right hand they would hang me sure, nomatter whether it was a bite, or a burn, or a bullet."
Cahill raised the glass to his lips and sipped the whiskeycritically. "Why?" he asked.
"Why? Why, didn't you know that the paymaster boasted last nightto the surgeons that he hit this fellow in the hand? Hesays—"
Cahill snorted scornfully. "How'd he know that? What makes himthink so?"
"Well, never mind, let him think so," Ranson answered,fervently. "Don't discourage him. That's the only evidence I've goton my side. He says he fired to disarm the man, and that he saw himshift his gun to his left hand. It was the shot that the man firedwhen he held his gun in his left that broke the colonel's arm. Now,everybody knows I can't hit a barn with my left. And as for havingany wounds concealed about my person"—Ranson turned his handslike a conjurer to show the front and back—"they can searchme. So, if the paymaster will only stick to that story—thathe hit the man—it will help me a lot." Ranson seated himselfon the table and swung his leg. "And of course it would be a bighelp, too, if you could remember who was in your Exchange when Iwas planning to rob the coach. For someone certainly must haveoverheard me, someone must have copied my disguise, and thatsomeone is the man we must find. Unless he came from Kiowa."
Cahill shoved his glass from him across the table and, placinghis hands on his knees, stared at his host coldly and defiantly.His would-be son-in-law observed the aggressiveness of hisattitude, but, in his fuller knowledge of their prospectiverelations, smiled blandly.
"Mr. Ranson," began Cahill, "I've no feelings against youpersonally. I've a friendly feeling for all of you young gentlemenat my mess. But you're not playing fair with me. I can see what youwant, and I can tell you that you and Captain Carr are not helpingyour case by asking me up here to drink and smoke with you, whenyou know that I'm the most important witness they've got againstyou."
Ranson stared at his father-in-law-elect in genuine amazement,and then laughed lightly.
"Why, dear Mr. Cahill," he cried, "I wouldn't think of bribingyou with such a bad brand of whiskey as this. And I didn't know youwere such an important witness as all that. But, of course, I knowwhatever you say in this community goes, and if your testimony isagainst me, I'm sorry for it, very sorry. I suppose you willtestify that there was no one in the Exchange who could have heardmy plan?"
Cahill nodded.
"And, as it's not likely two men at exactly the same time shouldhave thought of robbing the stage in exactly the same way, I musthave robbed it myself."
Cahill nursed his bandaged hand with the other. "That's thecourt's business," he growled; "I mean to tell the truth."
"And the truth is?" asked Ransom
"The truth is that last night there was no one in the Exchangebut you officers and me. If anybody'd come in on the store sideyou'd have seen him, wouldn't you? and if he'd come into theExchange I'd have seen him. But no one come in. I was therealone—and certainly I didn't hear your plan, and I didn't robthe stage. When you fellows left I went down to the Indian village.Half the reservation can prove I was there all the evening—soof the four of us, that lets me out. Crosby and Curtis were incommand of the pay escort—that's their alibi—and as faras I can see, lieutenant, that puts it up to you."
Ranson laughed and shook his head. "Yes, it certainly looks thatway," he said. "Only I can't see why you need be so damned pleasedabout it." He grinned wickedly. "If you weren't such a respectablemember of Fort Crockett society I might say you listened at thedoor, and rode after me in one of your own ponchos. As for theIndian village, that's no alibi. A Kiowa swear his skin's as whiteas yours if you give him a drink."
"And is that why I get this one?" Cahill demanded. "Am I aKiowa?"
Ranson laughed and shoved the bottle toward hisfather-in-law-elect.
"Oh, can't you take a joke?" he said. "Take another drink,then."
The voice outside the hut was too low to reach the irate Cahill,but Ranson heard it and leaped to his feet.
"Wait," he commanded. He ran to the door, and met SergeantClancey at the threshold.
"Miss Cahill, lieutenant," said the sergeant, "wants to see herfather."
Cahill had followed Ranson to the door, "You want to see me,Mame? "he asked.
"Yes," Miss Cahill cried; "and Mr. Ransom, too, if I may." Shecaught her father eagerly by the arm, but her eyes were turnedjoyfully upon Ranson. They were laughing with excitement. Her voicewas trembling and eager.
"It is something I have discovered," she cried; "I found it outjust now, and I think—oh, I hope!—it is most important.I believe it will clear Mr. Ranson!" she cried, happily. "At leastit will show that last night someone went out to rob the coach andwent dressed as he was."
Cahill gave a short laugh. "What's his name?" he asked,mockingly. "Have you seen him?"
"I didn't see him and I don't know his name, but—"
Cahill snorted, and picked up his sombrero from the table. "Thenit's not so very important after all," he said. "Is that all thatbrought you here?"
"The main thing is that she is here," said Ranson; "for whichthe poor prisoner is grateful—grateful to her and to the manshe hasn't seen, in the mask and poncho, whose name she doesn'tknow. Mr. Cahill, bad as it is, I insist on your finishing yourwhiskey. Miss Cahill, please sit down."
He moved a chair toward her and, as he did so, looked full intoher face with such love and happiness that she turned her eyesaway.
"Well?" asked Cahill.
"I must first explain to Lieutenant Ranson, father," said hisdaughter, "that to-day is the day we take account of stock."
"Speaking of stock," said Ranson, "don't forget that I owe youfor a red kerchief and a rubber poncho. You can have them back, ifyou like. I won't need a rain coat where I am going."
"Don't," said Miss Cahill. "Please let me go on. After I broughtyou your breakfast here, I couldn't begin to work just at once. Iwas thinking about—something else. Everyone was talking ofyou—your arrest, and I couldn't settle down to take accountof stock." She threw a look at Ranson which asked for his sympathy."But when I did start I began with the ponchos and the redkerchiefs, and then I found out something." Cahill was regardinghis daughter in strange distress, but Ranson appeared indifferentto her words, and intent only on the light and beauty in her face.But he asked, smiling, "And that was?"
"You see," continued Miss Cahill, eagerly, "I always keep adozen of each article, and as each one is sold I check it off in myday-book. Yesterday Mrs. Bolland bought a poncho for the colonel.That left eleven ponchos. Then a few minutes later I gave Lightfoota red kerchief for his squaw. That left eleven kerchiefs."
"Stop!" cried Ranson. "Miss Cahill," he began, severely, "I hopeyou do not mean to throw suspicion on the wife of my respectedcolonel, or on Mrs. Lightfoot, 'the Prairie Flower.' Those ladiesare my personal friends; I refuse to believe them guilty. And haveyou ever seen Mrs. Bolland on horseback? You wrong her. It isimpossible."
"Please," begged Miss Cahill, "please let me explain. When youwent to hold up the stage you took a poncho and a kerchief. Thatshould have left ten of each. But when I counted them this morningthere were nine red kerchiefs and nine ponchos."
Ranson slapped his knee sharply. "Good!" he said. "That isinteresting."
"What does it prove?" demanded Cahill.
"It proves nothing, or it proves everything," said Miss Cahill."To my mind it proves without any doubt that someone overheard Mr.Ranson's plan, that he dressed like him to throw suspicion on him,and that this second person was the one who robbed the paymaster.Now, father, this is where you can help us. You were there then.Try to remember. It is so important. Who came into the store afterthe others had gone away?"
Cahill tossed his head like an angry bull.
"There are fifty places in this post," he protested, roughly,"where a man can get a poncho. Every trooper owns his slicker."
"But, father, we don't know that theirs are missing," cried MissCahill, "and we do know that those in our store are. Don't think Iam foolish. It seemed such an important fact to me, and I had hopedit would help."
"It does help—immensely!" cried Ranson.
"I think it's a splendid clue. But, unfortunately, I don't thinkwe can prove anything by your father, for he's just been telling methat there was no one in the place but himself. No one came in, andhe was quite alone—" Ranson had begun speaking eagerly, buteither his own words or the intentness with which Cahill receivedthem caused him to halt andhesitate—"absolutely—alone."
"You see," said Cahill, thickly, "as soon as they had gone Irode to the Indian village."
"Why, no, father," corrected Miss Cahill. "Don't you remember,you told me last night that when you reached Lightfoot's tent I hadjust gone. That was quite two hours after the others left thestore." In her earnestness Miss Cahill had placed her hand upon herfather's arm and clutched it eagerly. "And you remember no onecoming in before you left?" she asked. "No one?"
Cahill had not replaced the bandaged hand in his pocket, but hadshoved it inside the opening of his coat. As Mary Cahill caught hisarm her fingers sank into the palm of the hand and he gave a slightgrimace of pain.
"Oh, father," Miss Cahill cried, "your hand! I am so sorry. DidI hurt it? Please—let me see."
Cahill drew back with sudden violence.
"No!" he cried. "Leave it alone! Come, we must be going." ButMiss Cahill held the wounded hand in both her own. When she turnedher eyes to Ranson they were filled with tender concern.
"I hurt him," she said, reproachfully. "He shot himself lastnight with one of those new cylinder revolvers."
Her father snatched the hand from her. He tried to drown hervoice by a sudden movement toward the door. "Come!" he called. "Doyou hear me?"
But his daughter in her sympathy continued. "He was holding itso," she said, "and it went off, and the bullet passed throughhere." She laid the tip of a slim white finger on the palm of herright hand.
"The bullet!" cried Ranson. He repeated, dully, "Thebullet!"
There was a sudden, tense silence. Outside they could hear thecrunch of the sentry's heel in the gravel, and from the baseballfield back of the barracks the soft spring air was rent with thejubilant crack of the bat as it drove the ball. Afterward Ransonremembered that while one half of his brain was terribly acute tothe moment, the other was wondering whether the runner had made hisbase. It seemed an interminable time before Ranson raised his eyesfrom Miss Cahill's palm to her father's face. What he read in themcaused Cahill to drop his hand swiftly to his hip.
Ranson saw the gesture and threw out both his hands. He gave ahysterical laugh, strangely boyish and immature, and ran to placehimself between Cahill and the door. "Drop it!" he whispered. "MyGod, man!" he entreated, "don't make a fool of yourself. Mr.Cahill," he cried aloud, "you can't go till you know. Can he, Mary?Yes, Mary." The tone in which he repeated the name was proprietaryand commanding. He took her hand. "Mr. Cahill," he said, joyously,"we've got something to tell you. I want you to understand that inspite of all I'VE done—I say in spite of all I'VEdone—I mean getting into this trouble and disgrace, and allthat—I've dared to ask your daughter to marry me." He turnedand led Miss Cahill swiftly toward the veranda. "Oh, I knew hewouldn't like it," he cried. "You see. I told you so. You've got tolet me talk to him alone. You go outside and wait. I can talkbetter when you are not here. I'll soon bring him around."
"Father," pleaded Miss Cahill, timidly. From behind her backRanson shook his head at the post-trader in violent pantomime."She'd better go outside and wait, hadn't she, Mr. Cahill?" hedirected.
As he was bidden, the post-trader raised his head and noddedtoward the door. The onslaught of sudden and new conditionsoverwhelmed and paralyzed him.
"Father!" said Miss Cahill, "it isn't just as you think. Mr.Ranson did ask me to marry him—in a way—At least, Iknew what he meant. But I did not say—in a way—that Iwould marry him. I mean it was not settled, or I would have toldyou. You mustn't think I would have left you out of this—ofmy happiness, you who have done everything to make me happy."
She reproached her father with her eyes fastened on his face.His own were stern, fixed, and miserable. "You will let it be,won't you, father?" she begged. "It—it means so much.I—can't tell you—" She threw out her hand toward Ransonas though designating a superior being. "Why, I can't tell HIM. Butif you are harsh with him or with me it will break my heart. For asI love you, father, I love him—and it has got to be. It mustbe. For I love him so. I have always loved him. Father," shewhispered, "I love him so."
Ranson, humbly, gratefully, took the girl's hand and led hergently to the veranda and closed the door upon her. Then he camedown the room and regarded his prospective father-in-law with anexpression of amused exasperation. He thrust his hands deep intothe pockets of his riding-breeches and nodded his head. "Well," heexclaimed, "you've made a damned pretty mess of it, haven'tyou?"
Cahill had sunk heavily into a chair and was staring at Ransonwith the stupid, wondering gaze of a dumb animal in pain. Duringthe moments in which the two men eyed each other Ranson's smiledisappeared. Cahill raised himself slowly as though with a greateffort.
"I done it," said Cahill, "for her. I done it to make herhappy."
"That's all right," said Ranson, briskly. "She's going to behappy. We're all going to be happy."
"An' all I did," Cahill continued, as though unconscious of theinterruption, "was to disgrace her." He rose suddenly to his feet.His mental sufferings were so keen that his huge body trembled. Herecognized how truly he had made "a mess of it." He saw that all hehad hoped to do for his daughter by crime would have been done forher by this marriage with Ranson, which would have made her a"lady," made her rich, made her happy. Had it not been for hismidnight raids she would have been honored, loved, and envied, evenby the wife of the colonel herself. But through him disgrace hadcome upon her, sorrow and trouble. She would not be known as thedaughter of Senator Ranson, but of Cahill, an ex-member of the Whyogang, a highway robber, as the daughter of a thief who was servinghis time in State prison. At the thought Cahill stepped backwardunsteadily as though he had been struck. He cried suddenly aloud.Then his hand whipped back to his revolver, but before he could useit Ranson had seized his wrist with both hands. The two struggledsilently and fiercely. The fact of opposition brought back toCahill all of his great strength.
"No, you don't!" Ranson muttered. "Think of your daughter, man.Drop it!"
"I shall do it," Cahill panted. "I am thinking of my daughter.It's the only way out. Take your hands off me—I shall!"
With his knuckles Ranson bored cruelly into the wounded hand,and it opened and the gun dropped from it; but as it did so it wentoff with a report that rang through the building. There was aninstant rush of feet upon the steps of the veranda, and at thesound the two men sprang apart, eyeing each other sheepishly liketwo discovered truants. When Sergeant Clancey and the guard pushedthrough the door Ranson stood facing it, spinning the revolver incowboy fashion around his fourth finger. He addressed the sergeantin a tone of bitter irony.
"Oh, you've come at last," he demanded. "Are you deaf? Whydidn't you come when I called?" His tone showed he considered hehad just cause for annoyance.
"The gun brought me, I—" began Clancey.
"Yes, I hoped it might. That's why I fired it," snapped Ranson."I want two whiskey-and-sodas. Quick now!"
"Two—" gasped Clancey.
"Whiskey-and-sodas. See how fast one of you can chase over tothe club and get 'em. And next time I want a drink don't make mewake the entire garrison."
As the soldiers retreated Ranson discovered Miss Cahill's whiteface beyond them. He ran and held the door open by a fewinches.
"It's all right," he whispered, reassuringly. "He's nearlypersuaded. Wait just a minute longer and he'll be giving us hisblessing."
"But the pistol-shot?" she asked.
"I was just calling the guard. The electric bell's broken, andyour father wanted a drink. That's a good sign, isn't it? Showshe's friendly, What kind did you say you wanted, Mr.Cahill—Scotch was it, or rye?" Ranson glanced back at thesombre, silent figure of Cahill, and then again opened the doorsufficiently for him to stick out his head. "Sergeant," he called,"make them both Scotch—long ones."
He shut the door and turned upon the post-trader. "Now, then,father- in-law," he said, briskly, "you've got to cut and run, andyou've got to run quick. We'll tell 'em you're going to Fort Worthto buy the engagement ring, because I can't, being under arrest.But you go to Duncan City instead, and from there take the cars,to—"
"Run away!" Cahill repeated, dazedly. "But you'll be court-martialled."
"There won't be any court-martial!"
Cahill glanced around the room quickly. "I see," he cried. Inhis eagerness he was almost smiling. "I'm to leave a confession andgive it to you."
"Confession! What rot!" cried Ranson.
"They can't prove anything against me. Everyone knows by nowthat there were two men on the trail, but they don't know who theother man was, and no one ever must know—especiallyMary."
Cahill struck the table with his fist. "I won't stand for it!"he cried. "I got you into this and I'm goin'—"
"Yes, going to jail," retorted Ranson. "You'll look nice behindthe bars, won't you? Your daughter will be proud of you in astriped suit. Don't talk nonsense. You're going to run and hidesome place, somewhere, where Mary and I can come and pay you avisit. Say— Canada. No, not Canada. I'd rather visit you injail than in a Montreal hotel. Say Tangier, or Buenos Ayres, orParis. Yes, Paris is safe enough—and so amusing."
Cahill seated himself heavily. "I trapped you into this fix, Mr.Ranson," he said, "you know I did, and now I mean to get you out ofit. I ain't going to leave the man my Mame wants to marry with acloud on him. I ain't going to let her husband be jailed."
Ranson had run to his desk and from a drawer drew forth a rollof bills. He advanced with them in his hand.
"Yes, Paris is certainly the place," he said. "Here's threehundred dollars. I'll cable you the rest. You've never been toParis, have you? It's full of beautiful sights—Henry'sAmerican Bar, for instance, and the courtyard of the Grand Hotel,and Maxim's. All good Americans go to Paris when they die and allthe bad ones while they are alive. You'll find lots of both kinds,and you'll sit all day on the sidewalk and drink Bock and listen toHungarian bands. And Mary and I will join you there and take youdriving in the Bois. Now, you start at once. I'll tell her you'vegone to New York to talk it over with father, and buy the ring.Then I'll say you've gone on to Paris to rent us apartments for thehoneymoon. I'll explain it somehow. That's better than going tojail, isn't it, and making us bow our heads in grief?"
Cahill, in his turn, approached the desk and, seating himselfbefore it, began writing rapidly.
"What is it?" asked Ranson.
"A confession," said Cahill, his pen scratching.
"I won't take it," Ranson said, "and I won't use it."
"I ain't going to give it to you," said Cahill, over hisshoulder. "I know better than that. But I don't go to Paris unlessI leave a confession behind me. Call in the guard," he commanded;"I want two witnesses."
"I'll see you hanged first," said Ranson.
Cahill crossed the room to the door and, throwing it open,called, "Corporal of the guard!"
As he spoke, Captain Carr and Mrs. Bolland, accompanied by MissPost and her aunt, were crossing the parade-ground. For a momentthe post- trader surveyed them doubtfully, and then, stepping outupon the veranda, beckoned to them.
"Here's a paper I've signed, captain," he said; "I wish you'dwitness my signature. It's my testimony for the court-martial."
"Then someone else had better sign it," said Carr. "Might lookprejudiced if I did." He turned to the ladies. "These ladies arecoming in to see Ranson now. They'll witness it."
Miss Cahill, from the other end of the veranda, and the visitorsentered the room together.
"Mrs. Truesdale!" cried Ranson. "You are pouring coals of fireupon my head. And Miss Post! Indeed, this is too much honor. Afterthe way I threatened and tried to frighten you last night Iexpected you to hang me, at least, instead of which you have, Itrust, come to tea."
"Nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Bolland, sternly. "These ladiesinsisted on my bringing them here to say how sorry they are thatthey talked so much and got you into this trouble. Understand, Mr.Ranson," the colonel's wife added, with dignity, "that I am nothere officially as Mrs. Bolland, but as a friend of theseladies."
"You are welcome in whatever form you take, Mrs. Bolland," criedRanson, "and, believe me, I am in no trouble—no trouble, Iassure you. In fact, I am quite the most contented man in theworld. Mrs. Bolland, in spite of the cloud, the temporary cloudwhich rests upon my fair name, I take great pride in announcing toyou that this young lady has done me the honor to consent to becomemy wife. Her father, a very old and dear friend, has given hisconsent. And I take this occasion to tell you of my good fortune,both in your official capacity and as my friend."
There was a chorus of exclamations and congratulations in whichMrs. Bolland showed herself to be a true wife and a socialdiplomatist. In the post-trader's daughter she instantly recognizedthe heiress to the Ranson millions, and the daughter of a Senatorwho also was the chairman of the Senate Committee on Brevets andPromotions. She fell upon Miss Cahill's shoulder and kissed her onboth cheeks. Turning eagerly upon Mrs. Truesdale, she said, "Alice,you can understand how I feel when I tell you that this child hasalways been to me like one of my own."
Carr took Ranson's hand and wrung it. Sergeant Clancey grewpurple with pleasure and stole back to the veranda, where hewhispered joyfully to a sentry. In another moment a passing privatewas seen racing delightedly toward the baseball field.
At the same moment Lieutenants Crosby and Curtis and theregimental adjutant crossed the parade ground from the colonel'squarters and ran up the steps of Ranson's hut. The expressions ofgood-will, of smiling embarrassment and general satisfaction whichLieutenant Crosby observed on the countenances of those presentseemed to give him a momentary check.
"Oh," he exclaimed, disappointedly, "someone has told you!"
Ranson laughed and took the hand which Crosby held doubtfullytoward him. "No one has told me," he said. "I've been tellingthem."
"Then you haven't heard?" Crosby cried, delightedly. "That'sgood. I begged to be the first to let you know, because I felt sobadly at having doubted you. You must let me congratulate you. Youare free."
"Free?" smiled Ranson.
"Yes, relieved from arrest," Crosby cried, joyfully. He turnedand took Ranson's sword from the hands of the adjutant. "And thecolonel's let your troop have the band to give you a serenade."
But Ranson's face showed no sign of satisfaction.
"Wait!" he cried. "Why am I relieved from arrest?"
"Why? Because the other fellow has confessed."
Ranson placed himself suddenly in front of Mary Cahill as thoughto shield her. His eyes stole stealthily towards Cahill'sconfession. Still unread and still unsigned, it lay unopened uponthe table. Cahill was gazing upon Ranson in blank bewilderment.
Captain Carr gasped a sigh of relief that was far fromcomplimentary to his client.
"Who confessed?" he cried.
"'Pop' Henderson," said Crosby.
"'Pop' Henderson!" shouted Cahill. Unmindful of his wound, hestruck the table savagely with his fist. For the first time in theknowledge of the post he exhibited emotion. "'Pop' Henderson, bythe eternal!" he cried. "And I never guessed it!"
"Yes," said Crosby, eagerly. "Abe Fisher was in it. Hendersonpersuaded the paymaster to make the trip alone with him. Then hedressed up Fisher to represent the Red Rider and sent him on aheadto hold him up. They were to share the money afterward. But Fisherfired on 'Pop' to kill, so as to have it all, and 'Pop's' trying toget even. And what with wanting to hurt Fisher, and thinking he isgoing to die, and not wishing to see you hanged, he's told thetruth. We wired Kiowa early this morning and arrested Fisher.They've found the money, and he has confessed, too."
"But the poncho and the red kerchief?" protested Carr. "And hehad no stirrups!"
"Oh, Fisher had the make-up all right," laughed Crosby;"Henderson says Fisher's the 'only, original' Red Rider. And as forthe stirrups, I'm afraid that's my fault. I asked the colonel ifthe man wasn't riding without stirrups, and I guess the wish wasfather to the fact. He only imagined he hadn't seen any stirrups.The colonel was rattled. So, old man," he added, turning to Ranson,"here's your sword again, and God bless you."
Already the post had learned the news from the band and theverandas of the enlisted men overflowed with delighted troopers.From the stables and the ball field came the sound of hurryingfeet, and a tumult of cheers and cowboy yells. Across theparade-ground the regimental band bore down upon Ranson's hut,proclaiming to the garrison that there would be a hot time in theold town that night. But Sergeant Clancey ran to meet thebandmaster, and shouted in his ear. "He's going to marry MaryCahill," he cried. "I heard him tell the colonel's wife. Play 'JustBecause She Made Them Goo-goo Eyes.'"
"Like hell!" cried the bandmaster, indignantly, breaking in onthe tune with his baton. "I know my business! Now, then, men," hecommanded, "'I'll Leave My Happy Home for You.'"
As Mrs. Bolland dragged Miss Cahill into view of the assembledtroopers Ranson pulled his father-in-law into a far corner of theroom. He shook the written confession in his face.
"Now, will you kindly tell me what that means?" he demanded."What sort of a gallery play were you trying to make?"
Cahill shifted his sombrero guiltily. "I was trying to get youout of the hole," he stammered. "I—I thought you doneit."
"You thought I done it!"
"Sure. I never thought nothing else."
"Then why do you say here that YOU did it?"
"Oh, because," stammered Cahill, miserably, "'cause of Mary,'cause she wanted to marry you—'cause you were going to marryher."
"Well—but—what good were you going to do by shootingyourself?"
"Oh, then?" Cahill jerked back his head as though casting out anunpleasant memory. "I thought you'd caught me, you,too—between you!"
"Caught you! Then you did—?"
"No, but I tried to. I heard your plan, and I did follow you inthe poncho and kerchief, meaning to hold up the stage first, andleave it to Crosby and Curtis to prove you did it. But when Ireached the coach you were there ahead of me, and I rode away andput in my time at the Indian village. I never saw the paymaster'scart, never heard of it till this morning. But what with Mamemissing the poncho out of our shop and the wound in my hand Iguessed they'd all soon suspect me. I saw you did. So I thought I'djust confess to what I meant to do, even if I didn't do it."
Ranson surveyed his father-in-law with a delighted grin. "Howdid you get that bullet-hole in your hand?" he asked.
Cahill laughed shamefacedly. "I hate to tell you that," he said."I got it just as I said I did. My new gun went off while I wasfooling with it, with my hand over the muzzle. And me the best shotin the Territory! But when I heard the paymaster claimed he shotthe Red Rider through the palm I knew no one would believe me if Itold the truth. So I lied."
Ranson glanced down at the written confession, and then tore itslowly into pieces. "And you were sure I robbed the stage, and yetyou believed that I'd use this? What sort of a son-in-law do youthink you've got?"
"You thoughtI robbed the stage, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"And you were going to stand for robbing it yourself, weren'tyou? Well, that's the sort of son-in-law I've got!"
The two men held out their hands at the same instant.
Mary Cahill, her face glowing with pride and besieged withblushes, came toward them from the veranda. She was laughing andradiant, but she turned her eyes on Ranson with a look of tenderreproach.
"Why did you desert me?" she said. "It was awful. They arecalling you now. They are playing 'The Conquering Hero.'"
"Mr. Cahill," commanded Ranson, "go out there and make aspeech." He turned to Mary Cahill and lifted one of her hands inboth of his. "Well, I AM the conquering hero," he said. "I've wonthe only thing worth winning, dearest," he whispered; "we'll runaway from them in a minute, and we'll ride to the waterfall and theLover's Leap." He looked down at her wistfully. "Do youremember?"
Mary Cahill raised her head and smiled. He leaned toward herbreathlessly.
"Why, did it mean that to you, too?" he asked.
She smiled up at him in assent.
"But I didn't say anything, did I?" whispered Ranson. "I hardlyknew you then. But I knew that day that I—that I would marryyou or nobody else. And did you think—that you—"
"Yes," Mary Cahill whispered.
He bent his head and touched her hand with his lips.
"Then we'll go back this morning to the waterfall," he said,"and tell it that it's all come right. And now, we'll bow to thosecrazy people out there, those make-believe dream-people, who don'tknow that there is nothing real in this world but just you and me,and that we love each other."
A dishevelled orderly bearing a tray with two glasses confrontedRanson at the door. "Here's the Scotch and sodas, lieutenant," hepanted. "I couldn't get 'em any sooner. The men wanted to take 'emoff me—to drink Miss Cahill's health."
"So they shall," said Ranson. "Tell them to drink the canteendry and charge it to me. What's a little thing like the regulationsbetween friends? They have taught me my manners. Mr. Cahill," hecalled.
The post-trader returned from the veranda.
Ranson solemnly handed him a glass and raised the other in theair. "Here's hoping that the Red Rider rides on his raids no more,"he said; "and to the future Mrs. Ranson—to Mary Cahill, Godbless her!"
He shattered the empty glass in the grate and took Cahill'shand.
"Father-in-law," said Ranson, "let's promise each other to leada new and a better life."
The Master was walking most unsteady, his legs tripping eachother. After the fifth or sixth round, my legs often go the sameway.
But even when the Master's legs bend and twist a bit, youmustn't think he can't reach you. Indeed, that is the time he kicksmost frequent. So I kept behind him in the shadow, or ran in themiddle of the street. He stopped at many public-houses withswinging doors, those doors that are cut so high from the sidewalkthat you can look in under them, and see if the Master is inside.At night when I peep beneath them the man at the counter will seeme first and say, "Here's the Kid, Jerry, come to take you home.Get a move on you," and the Master will stumble out and follow me.It's lucky for us I'm so white, for no matter how dark the night,he can always see me ahead, just out of reach of his boot. At nightthe Master certainly does see most amazing. Sometimes he sees twoor four of me, and walks in a circle, so that I have to take him bythe leg of his trousers and lead him into the right road. Onenight, when he was very nasty- tempered and I was coaxing himalong, two men passed us and one of them says, "Look at thatbrute!" and the other asks "Which?" and they both laugh. TheMaster, he cursed them good and proper.
This night, whenever we stopped at a public-house, the Master'spals left it and went on with us to the next. They spoke quitecivil to me, and when the Master tried a flying kick, they giveshim a shove. "Do you want we should lose our money?" says thepals.
I had had nothing to eat for a day and a night, and just beforewe set out the Master gives me a wash under the hydrant. Whenever Iam locked up until all the slop-pans in our alley are empty, andmade to take a bath, and the Master's pals speak civil, and feel myribs, I know something is going to happen. And that night, whenevery time they see a policeman under a lamp-post, they dodgedacross the street, and when at the last one of them picked me upand hid me under his jacket, I began to tremble; for I knew what itmeant. It meant that I was to fight again for the Master.
I don't fight because I like it. I fight because if I didn't theother dog would find my throat, and the Master would lose hisstakes, and I would be very sorry for him and ashamed. Dogs canpass me and I can pass dogs, and I'd never pick a fight with noneof them. When I see two dogs standing on their hind-legs in thestreets, clawing each other's ears, and snapping for each other'swindpipes, or howling and swearing and rolling in the mud, I feelsorry they should act so, and pretend not to notice. If he'd letme, I'd like to pass the time of day with every dog I meet. Butthere's something about me that no nice dog can abide. When I trotup to nice dogs, nodding and grinning, to make friends, they alwaystell me to be off. "Go to the devil!" they bark at me; "Get out!"and when I walk away they shout "mongrel," and "gutter-dog," andsometimes, after my back is turned, they rush me. I could kill mostof them with three shakes, breaking the back-bone of the littleones, and squeezing the throat of the big ones. But what's thegood? They are nice dogs; that's why I try to make up to them, andthough it's not for them to say it, I am a street-dog, and if I tryto push into the company of my betters, I suppose it's their rightto teach me my place.
Of course, they don't know I'm the best fighting bull-terrier ofmy weight in Montreal. That's why it wouldn't be right for me totake no notice of what they shout. They don't know that if I oncelocked my jaws on them I'd carry away whatever I touched. The nightI fought Kelley's White Rat, I wouldn't loosen up until the Mastermade a noose in my leash and strangled me, and if the handlershadn't thrown red pepper down my nose, I never would have let go ofthat Ottawa dog. I don't think the handlers treated me quite rightthat time, but maybe they didn't know the Ottawa dog was dead. Idid.
I learned my fighting from my mother when I was very young. Weslept in a lumber-yard on the river-front, and by day hunted forfood along the wharves. When we got it, the other tramp-dogs wouldtry to take it off us, and then it was wonderful to see mother flyat them, and drive them away. All I know of fighting I learned frommother, watching her picking the ash-heaps for me when I was toolittle to fight for myself. No one ever was so good to me asmother. When it snowed and the ice was in the St. Lawrence she usedto hunt alone, and bring me back new bones, and she'd sit and laughto see me trying to swallow 'em whole. I was just a puppy then, myteeth was falling out. When I was able to fight we kept the wholeriver-range to ourselves, I had the genuine long, "punishing" jaw,so mother said, and there wasn't a man or a dog that dared worryus. Those were happy days, those were; and we lived well, share andshare alike, and when we wanted a bit of fun, we chased the fat oldwharf-rats. My! how they would squeal!
Then the trouble came. It was no trouble to me. I was too youngto care then. But mother took it so to heart that she grew ailing,and wouldn't go abroad with me by day. It was the same old scandalthat they're always bringing up against me. I was so young thenthat I didn't know. I couldn't see any difference betweenmother—and other mothers.
But one day a pack of curs we drove off snarled back some newnames at her, and mother dropped her head and ran, just as thoughthey had whipped us. After that she wouldn't go out with me exceptin the dark, and one day she went away and never came back, andthough I hunted for her in every court and alley and back street ofMontreal, I never found her.
One night, a month after mother ran away, I asked Guardian, theold blind mastiff, whose Master is the night-watchman on our slip,what it all meant. And he told me.
"Every dog in Montreal knows," he says, "except you, and everyMaster knows. So I think it's time you knew."
Then he tells me that my father, who had treated mother so bad,was a great and noble gentleman from London. "Your father hadtwenty-two registered ancestors, had your father," old Guardiansays, "and in him was the best bull-terrier blood of England, themost ancientest, the most royal; the winning 'blue-ribbon' blood,that breeds champions. He had sleepy pink eyes, and thin pink lips,and he was as white all over as his own white teeth, and under hiswhite skin you could see his muscles, hard and smooth, like thelinks of a steel chain. When your father stood still, and tippedhis nose in the air, it was just as though he was saying, 'Oh, yes,you common dogs and men, you may well stare. It must be a raretreat for you Colonials to see a real English royalty.' Hecertainly was pleased with hisself, was your father. He looked justas proud and haughty as one of them stone dogs in VictoriaPark—them as is cut out of white marble. And you're likehim," says the old mastiff—"by that, of course, meaningyou're white, same as him. That's the only likeness. But, you see,the trouble is, Kid—well, you see, Kid, the troubleis—your mother- -"
"That will do," I said, for I understood then without histelling me, and I got up and walked away, holding my head and tailhigh in the air.
But I was, oh, so miserable, and I wanted to see mother thatvery minute, and tell her that I didn't care.
Mother is what I am, a street-dog; there's no royal blood inmother's veins, nor is she like that father of mine, nor—andthat's the worst—she's not even like me. For while I, whenI'm washed for a fight, am as white as clean snow, she—andthis is our trouble, she— my mother, is a black-and-tan.
When mother hid herself from me, I was twelve months old andable to take care of myself, and, as after mother left me, thewharves were never the same, I moved uptown and met the Master.Before he came, lots of other men-folks had tried to make up to me,and to whistle me home. But they either tried patting me or coaxingme with a piece of meat; so I didn't take to 'em. But one day theMaster pulled me out of a street-fight by the hind-legs, and kickedme good.
"You want to fight, do you?" says he. "I'll give you all theFIGHTING you want!" he says, and he kicks me again. So I knew hewas my Master, and I followed him home. Since that day I've pulledoff many fights for him, and they've brought dogs from all over theprovince to have a go at me, but up to that night none, underthirty pounds, had ever downed me.
But that night, so soon as they carried me into the ring, I sawthe dog was over-weight, and that I was no match for him. It wasasking too much of a puppy. The Master should have known I couldn'tdo it. Not that I mean to blame the Master, for when sober, whichhe sometimes was, though not, as you might say, his habit, he wasmost kind to me, and let me out to find food, if I could get it,and only kicked me when I didn't pick him up at night and lead himhome.
But kicks will stiffen the muscles, and starving a dog so as toget him ugly-tempered for a fight may make him nasty, but it'sweakening to his insides, and it causes the legs to wabble.
The ring was in a hall, back of a public-house. There was ared-hot whitewashed stove in one corner, and the ring in the other.I lay in the Master's lap, wrapped in my blanket, and, spite of thestove, shivering awful; but I always shiver before a fight; I can'thelp gettin' excited. While the men-folks were a-flashing theirmoney and taking their last drink at the bar, a little Irish groomin gaiters came up to me and give me the back of his hand to smell,and scratched me behind the ears.
"You poor little pup," says he. "You haven't no show," he says."That brute in the tap-room, he'll eat your heart out."
"That's what you think," says the Master, snarling. "I'll layyou a quid the Kid chews him up."
The groom, he shook his head, but kept looking at me sosorry-like, that I begun to get a bit sad myself. He seemed like hecouldn't bear to leave off a-patting of me, and he says, speakinglow just like he would to a man-folk, "Well, good-luck to you,little pup," which I thought so civil of him, that I reached up andlicked his hand. I don't do that to many men. And the Master, heknew I didn't, and took on dreadful.
"What 'ave you got on the back of your hand?" says he, jumpingup.
"Soap!" says the groom, quick as a rat. "That's more than you'vegot on yours. Do you want to smell of it?" and he sticks his fistunder the Master's nose. But the pals pushed in between 'em.
"He tried to poison the Kid!" shouts the Master.
"Oh, one fight at a time," says the referee. "Get into the ring,Jerry. We're waiting." So we went into the ring.
I never could just remember what did happen in that ring. Hegive me no time to spring. He fell on me like a horse. I couldn'tkeep my feet against him, and though, as I saw, he could get hishold when he liked, he wanted to chew me over a bit first. I waswondering if they'd be able to pry him off me, when, in the thirdround, he took his hold; and I began to drown, just as I did when Ifell into the river off the Red C slip. He closed deeper anddeeper, on my throat, and everything went black and red andbursting; and then, when I were sure I were dead, the handlerspulled him off, and the Master give me a kick that brought me to.But I couldn't move none, or even wink, both eyes being shut withlumps.
"He's a cur!" yells the Master, "a sneaking, cowardly cur. Helost the fight for me," says he, "because he'sa————-cowardly cur." And he kicks me againin the lower ribs, so that I go sliding across the sawdust."There's gratitude fer yer," yells the Master. "I've fed that dog,and nussed that dog, and housed him like a prince; and now he putshis tail between his legs, and sells me out, he does. He's acoward; I've done with him, I am. I'd sell him for a pipeful oftobacco." He picked me up by the tail, and swung me for themen-folks to see. "Does any gentleman here want to buy a dog," hesays, "to make into sausage-meat?" he says. "That's all he's goodfor."
Then I heard the little Irish groom say, "I'll give you ten bobfor the dog."
And another voice says, "Ah, don't you do it; the dog's same asdead- -mebby he is dead."
"Ten shillings!" says the Master, and his voice sobers a bit;"make it two pounds, and he's yours."
But the pals rushed in again.
"Don't you be a fool, Jerry," they say. "You'll be sorry forthis when you're sober. The Kid's worth a fiver."
One of my eyes was not so swelled up as the other, and as I hungby my tail, I opened it, and saw one of the pals take the groom bythe shoulder.
"You ought to give 'im five pounds for that dog, mate," he says;"that's no ordinary dog. That dog's got good blood in him, that doghas. Why, his father—that very dog's father—"
I thought he never would go on. He waited like he wanted to besure the groom was listening.
"That very dog's father," says the pal, "is Regent Royal, son ofChampion Regent Monarch, champion bull-terrier of England for fouryears."
I was sore, and torn, and chewed most awful, but what the palsaid sounded so fine that I wanted to wag my tail, only couldn't,owing to my hanging from it.
But the Master calls out, "Yes, his father was Regent Royal;who's saying he wasn't? but the pup's a cowardly cur, that's whathis pup is, and why—I'll tell you why—because hismother was a black-and- tan street-dog, that's why!"
I don't see how I get the strength, but some way I threw myselfout of the Master's grip and fell at his feet, and turned over andfastened all my teeth in his ankle, just across the bone.
When I woke, after the pals had kicked me off him, I was in thesmoking-car of a railroad-train, lying in the lap of the littlegroom, and he was rubbing my open wounds with a greasy, yellowstuff, exquisite to the smell, and most agreeable to lick off.
"Well—what's your name—Nolan? Well, Nolan, thesereferences are satisfactory," said the young gentleman my newMaster called "Mr. Wyndham, sir." "I'll take you on as second man.You can begin to- day."
My new Master shuffled his feet, and put his finger to hisforehead. "Thank you, sir," says he. Then he choked like he hadswallowed a fish-bone. "I have a little dawg, sir," says he.
"You can't keep him," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," very short.
"'Es only a puppy, sir," says my new Master; "'e wouldn't gooutside the stables, sir."
"It's not that," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir;" "I have a large kennelof very fine dogs; they're the best of their breed in America. Idon't allow strange dogs on the premises."
The Master shakes his head, and motions me with his cap, and Icrept out from behind the door. "I'm sorry, sir," says the Master."Then I can't take the place. I can't get along without the dog,sir."
"Mr. Wyndham, sir," looked at me that fierce that I guessed hewas going to whip me, so I turned over on my back and begged withmy legs and tail.
"Why, you beat him!" says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," very stern.
"No fear!" the Master says, getting very red. "The party Ibought him off taught him that. He never learnt that from me!" Hepicked me up in his arms, and to show "Mr. Wyndham, sir," how wellI loved the Master, I bit his chin and hands.
"Mr. Wyndham, sir," turned over the letters the Master had givenhim. "Well, these references certainly are very strong," he says."I guess I'll let the dog stay this time. Only see you keep himaway from the kennels—or you'll both go."
"Thank you, sir," says the Master, grinning like a cat whenshe's safe behind the area-railing.
"He's not a bad bull-terrier," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," feelingmy head. "Not that I know much about the smooth-coated breeds. Mydogs are St. Bernards." He stopped patting me and held up my nose."What's the matter with his ears?" he says. "They're chewed topieces. Is this a fighting dog?" he asks, quick and rough-like.
I could have laughed. If he hadn't been holding my nose, Icertainly would have had a good grin at him. Me, the best underthirty pounds in the Province of Quebec, and him asking if I was afighting dog! I ran to the Master and hung down my headmodest-like, waiting for him to tell my list of battles, but theMaster he coughs in his cap most painful. "Fightin' dog, sir," hecries. "Lor' bless you, sir, the Kid don't know the word. 'Es justa puppy, sir, same as you see; a pet dog, so to speak. 'Es aregular old lady's lap-dog, the Kid is."
"Well, you keep him away from my St. Bernards," says "Mr.Wyndham, sir," "or they might make a mouthful of him."
"Yes, sir, that they might," says the Master. But when we getsoutside he slaps his knee and laughs inside hisself, and winks atme most sociable.
The Master's new home was in the country, in a province theycalled Long Island. There was a high stone wall about his home withbig iron gates to it, same as Godfrey's brewery; and there was ahouse with five red roofs, and the stables, where I lived, wascleaner than the aerated bakery-shop, and then there was thekennels, but they was like nothing else in this world that ever Isee. For the first days I couldn't sleep of nights for fear someonewould catch me lying in such a cleaned-up place, and would chase meout of it, and when I did fall to sleep I'd dream I was back in theold Master's attic, shivering under the rusty stove, which neverhad no coals in it, with the Master flat on his back on the coldfloor with his clothes on. And I'd wake up, scared and whimpering,and find myself on the new Master's cot with his hand on the quiltbeside me; and I'd see the glow of the big stove, and hear thehigh-quality horses below-stairs stamping in their straw-linedboxes, and I'd snoop the sweet smell of hay and harness-soap, andgo to sleep again.
The stables was my jail, so the Master said, but I don't ask nobetter home than that jail.
"Now, Kid," says he, sitting on the top of a bucket upside down,"you've got to understand this. When I whistle it means you're notto go out of this 'ere yard. These stables is your jail. And if youleave 'em I'll have to leave 'em, too, and over the seas, in theCounty Mayo, an old mother will 'ave to leave her bit of a cottage.For two pounds I must be sending her every month, or she'll havenaught to eat, nor no thatch over 'er head; so, I can't lose myplace, Kid, an' see you don't lose it for me. You must keep awayfrom the kennels," says he; "they're not for the likes of you. Thekennels are for the quality. I wouldn't take a litter of themwoolly dogs for one wag of your tail, Kid, but for all that theyare your betters, same as the gentry up in the big house are mybetters. I know my place and keep away from the gentry, and youkeep away from the Champions."
So I never goes out of the stables. All day I just lay in thesun on the stone flags, licking my jaws, and watching the groomswash down the carriages, and the only care I had was to see theydidn't get gay and turn the hose on me. There wasn't even a singlerat to plague me. Such stables I never did see.
"Nolan," says the head-groom, "some day that dog of yours willgive you the slip. You can't keep a street-dog tied up all hislife. It's against his natur'." The head-groom is a nice oldgentleman, but he doesn't know everything. Just as though I'd beena street-dog because I liked it. As if I'd rather poke for myvittles in ash-heaps than have 'em handed me in a wash-basin, andwould sooner bite and fight than be polite and sociable. If I'd hadmother there I couldn't have asked for nothing more. But I'd thinkof her snooping in the gutters, or freezing of nights under thebridges, or, what's worse of all, running through the hot streetswith her tongue down, so wild and crazy for a drink, that thepeople would shout "mad dog" at her, and stone her. Water's sogood, that I don't blame the men-folks for locking it up insidetheir houses, but when the hot days come, I think they mightremember that those are the dog-days and leave a little wateroutside in a trough, like they do for the horses. Then we wouldn'tgo mad, and the policemen wouldn't shoot us. I had so much ofeverything I wanted that it made me think a lot of the days when Ihadn't nothing, and if I could have given what I had to mother, asshe used to share with me, I'd have been the happiest dog in theland. Not that I wasn't happy then, and most grateful to theMaster, too, and if I'd only minded him, the trouble wouldn't havecome again.
But one day the coachman says that the little lady they calledMiss Dorothy had come back from school, and that same morning sheruns over to the stables to pat her ponies, and she sees me.
"Oh, what a nice little, white little dog," said she; "whoselittle dog are you?" says she.
"That's my dog, miss," says the Master. "'Is name is Kid," and Iran up to her most polite, and licks her fingers, for I never seeso pretty and kind a lady.
"You must come with me and call on my new puppies," says she,picking me up in her arms and starting off with me.
"Oh, but please, Miss," cries Nolan, "Mr. Wyndham give ordersthat the Kid's not to go to the kennels."
"That'll be all right," says the little lady; "they're mykennels too. And the puppies will like to play with him."
You wouldn't believe me if I was to tell you of the style ofthem quality-dogs. If I hadn't seen it myself I wouldn't havebelieved it neither. The Viceroy of Canada don't live no better.There was forty of them, but each one had his own house and ayard—most exclusive— and a cot and a drinking-basin allto hisself. They had servants standing 'round waiting to feed 'emwhen they was hungry, and valets to wash 'em; and they had theirhair combed and brushed like the grooms must when they go out onthe box. Even the puppies had overcoats with their names on 'em inblue letters, and the name of each of those they called championswas painted up fine over his front door just like it was apublic-house or a veterinary's. They were the biggest St. BernardsI ever did see. I could have walked under them if they'd have letme. But they were very proud and haughty dogs, and looked only onceat me, and then sniffed in the air. The little lady's own dog wasan old gentleman bull-dog. He'd come along with us, and when henotices how taken aback I was with all I see, 'e turned quite kindand affable and showed me about.
"Jimmy Jocks," Miss Dorothy called him, but, owing to hisweight, he walked most dignified and slow, waddling like a duck asyou might say, and looked much too proud and handsome for such asilly name.
"That's the runway, and that's the Trophy House," says he to me,"and that over there is the hospital, where you have to go if youget distemper, and the vet. gives you beastly medicine."
"And which of these is your 'ouse, sir?" asks I, wishing to berespectful. But he looked that hurt and haughty. "I don't live inthe kennels," says he, most contemptuous. "I am a house-dog. Isleep in Miss Dorothy's room. And at lunch I'm let in with thefamily, if the visitors don't mind. They most always do, butthey're too polite to say so. Besides," says he, smiling mostcondescending, "visitors are always afraid of me. It's because I'mso ugly," says he. "I suppose," says he, screwing up his wrinklesand speaking very slow and impressive, "I suppose I'm the ugliestbull-dog in America," and as he seemed to be so pleased to thinkhisself so, I said, "Yes, sir, you certainly are the ugliest ever Isee," at which he nodded his head most approving.
"But I couldn't hurt 'em, as you say," he goes on, though Ihadn't said nothing like that, being too polite. "I'm too old," hesays; "I haven't any teeth. The last time one of those grizzlybears," said he, glaring at the big St. Bernards, "took a hold ofme, he nearly was my death," says he. I thought his eyes would popout of his head, he seemed so wrought up about it. "He rolled mearound in the dirt, he did," says Jimmy Jocks, "an' I couldn't getup. It was low," says Jimmy Jocks, making a face like he had a badtaste in his mouth. "Low, that's what I call it, bad form, youunderstand, young man, not done in our circles—and—andlow." He growled, way down in his stomach, and puffed hisself out,panting and blowing like he had been on a run.
"I'm not a street-fighter," he says, scowling at a St. Bernardmarked "Champion." "And when my rheumatism is not troubling me," hesays, "I endeavor to be civil to all dogs, so long as they aregentlemen."
"Yes, sir," said I, for even to me he had been most affable.
At this we had come to a little house off by itself and JimmyJocks invites me in. "This is their trophy-room," he says, "wherethey keep their prizes. Mine," he says, rather grand-like, "are onthe sideboard." Not knowing what a sideboard might be, I said,"Indeed, sir, that must be very gratifying." But he only wrinkledup his chops as much as to say, "It is my right."
The trophy-room was as wonderful as any public-house I ever see.On the walls was pictures of nothing but beautiful St. Bernarddogs, and rows and rows of blue and red and yellow ribbons; andwhen I asked Jimmy Jocks why they was so many more of blue than ofthe others, he laughs and says, "Because these kennels always win."And there was many shining cups on the shelves which Jimmy Jockstold me were prizes won by the champions.
"Now, sir, might I ask you, sir," says I, "wot is achampion?"
At that he panted and breathed so hard I thought he would busthisself. "My dear young friend!" says he. "Wherever have you beeneducated? A champion is a—a champion," he says. "He must winnine blue ribbons in the 'open' class. You follow me—thatis—against all comers. Then he has the title before his name,and they put his photograph in the sporting papers. You know, ofcourse, thatI am a champion," says he. "I am ChampionWoodstock Wizard III., and the two other Woodstock Wizards, myfather and uncle, were both champions."
"But I thought your name was Jimmy Jocks," I said.
He laughs right out at that.
"That's my kennel name, not my registered name," he says. "Why,you certainly know that every dog has two names. Now, what's yourregistered name and number, for instance?" says he.
"I've only got one name," I says. "Just Kid."
Woodstock Wizard puffs at that and wrinkles up his forehead andpops out his eyes.
"Who are your people?" says he. "Where is your home?"
"At the stable, sir," I said. "My Master is the secondgroom."
At that Woodstock Wizard III. looks at me for quite a bitwithout winking, and stares all around the room over my head.
"Oh, well," says he at last, "you're a very civil young dog,"says he, "and I blame no one for what he can't help," which Ithought most fair and liberal. "And I have known many bullterriersthat were champions," says he, "though as a rule they mostly runwith fire- engines, and to fighting. For me, I wouldn't care to runthrough the streets after a hose-cart, nor to fight," says he; "buteach to his taste."
I could not help thinking that if Woodstock Wizard III. tried tofollow a fire-engine he would die of apoplexy, and that, seeinghe'd lost his teeth, it was lucky he had no taste for fighting,but, after his being so condescending, I didn't say nothing.
"Anyway," says he, "every smooth-coated dog is better than anyhairy old camel like those St. Bernards, and if ever you're hungrydown at the stables, young man, come up to the house and I'll giveyou a bone. I can't eat them myself, but I bury them around thegarden from force of habit, and in case a friend should drop in.Ah, I see my Mistress coming," he says, "and I bid you good-day. Iregret," he says, "that our different social position prevents ourmeeting frequent, for you're a worthy young dog with a properrespect for your betters, and in this country there's precious fewof them have that." Then he waddles off, leaving me alone and verysad, for he was the first dog in many days that had spoken to me.But since he showed, seeing that I was a stable-dog, he didn't wantmy company, I waited for him to get well away. It was not acheerful place to wait, the Trophy House. The pictures of thechampions seemed to scowl at me, and ask what right had such as Ieven to admire them, and the blue and gold ribbons and the silvercups made me very miserable. I had never won no blue ribbons orsilver cups; only stakes for the old Master to spend in thepublics, and I hadn't won them for being a beautiful, high-qualitydog, but just for fighting—which, of course, as WoodstockWizard III. says, is low. So I started for the stables, with myhead down and my tail between my legs, feeling sorry I had everleft the Master. But I had more reason to be sorry before I gotback to him.
The Trophy House was quite a bit from the kennels, and as I leftit I see Miss Dorothy and Woodstock Wizard III. walking back towardthem, and that a fine, big St. Bernard, his name was Champion RedElfberg, had broke his chain, and was running their way. When hereaches old Jimmy Jocks he lets out a roar like a grain-steamer ina fog, and he makes three leaps for him. Old Jimmy Jocks was abouta fourth his size; but he plants his feet and curves his back, andhis hair goes up around his neck like a collar. But he never had noshow at no time, for the grizzly bear, as Jimmy Jocks had calledhim, lights on old Jimmy's back and tries to break it, and oldJimmy Jocks snaps his gums and claws the grass, panting andgroaning awful. But he can't do nothing, and the grizzly bear justrolls him under him, biting and tearing cruel. The odds was allthat Woodstock Wizard III. was going to be killed. I had foughtenough to see that, but not knowing the rules of the game amongchampions, I didn't like to interfere between two gentlemen whomight be settling a private affair, and, as it were, take it aspresuming of me. So I stood by, though I was shaking terrible, andholding myself in like I was on a leash. But at that WoodstockWizard III., who was underneath, sees me through the dust, andcalls very faint, "Help, you!" he says. "Take him in the hind-leg," he says. "He's murdering me," he says. And then the littleMiss Dorothy, who was crying, and calling to the kennel-men,catches at the Red Elfberg's hind-legs to pull him off, and thebrute, keeping his front pats well in Jimmy's stomach, turns hisbig head and snaps at her. So that was all I asked for, thank you.I went up under him. It was really nothing. He stood so high that Ihad only to take off about three feet from him and come in from theside, and my long, "punishing jaw" as mother was always talkingabout, locked on his woolly throat, and my back teeth met. Icouldn't shake him, but I shook myself, and every time I shookmyself there was thirty pounds of weight tore at his windpipes. Icouldn't see nothing for his long hair, but I heard Jimmy Jockspuffing and blowing on one side, and munching the brute's leg withhis old gums. Jimmy was an old sport that day, was Jimmy, or,Woodstock Wizard III., as I should say. When the Red Elfberg wasout and down I had to run, or those kennel-men would have had mylife. They chased me right into the stables; and from under the hayI watched the head-groom take down a carriage-whip and order themto the right about. Luckily Master and the young grooms were out,or that day there'd have been fighting for everybody.
Well, it nearly did for me and the Master. "Mr. Wyndham, sir,"comes raging to the stables and said I'd half-killed his bestprize-winner, and had oughter be shot, and he gives the Master hisnotice. But Miss Dorothy she follows him, and says it was his RedElfberg what began the fight, and that I'd saved Jimmy's life, andthat old Jimmy Jocks was worth more to her than all the St.Bernards in the Swiss mountains—where-ever they be. And thatI was her champion, anyway. Then she cried over me most beautiful,and over Jimmy Jocks, too, who was that tied up in bandages hecouldn't even waddle. So when he heard that side of it, "Mr.Wyndham, sir," told us that if Nolan put me on a chain, we couldstay. So it came out all right for everybody but me. I was glad theMaster kept his place, but I'd never worn a chain before, and itdisheartened me—but that was the least of it. For thequality-dogs couldn't forgive my whipping their champion, and theycame to the fence between the kennels and the stables, and laughedthrough the bars, barking most cruel words at me. I couldn'tunderstand how they found it out, but they knew. After the fightJimmy Jocks was most condescending to me, and he said the groomshad boasted to the kennel-men that I was a son of Regent Royal, andthat when the kennel-men asked who was my mother they had had totell them that too. Perhaps that was the way of it, but, however,the scandal was out, and every one of the quality-dogs knew that Iwas a street- dog and the son of a black-and-tan.
"These misalliances will occur," said Jimmy Jocks, in his old-fashioned way, "but no well-bred dog," says he, looking mostscornful at the St. Bernards, who were howling behind the palings,"would refer to your misfortune before you, certainly not cast itin your face. I, myself, remember your father's father, when hemade his debut at the Crystal Palace. He took four blue ribbons andthree specials."
But no sooner than Jimmy would leave me, the St. Bernards wouldtake to howling again, insulting mother and insulting me. And whenI tore at my chain, they, seeing they were safe, would howl themore. It was never the same after that; the laughs and the jeerscut into my heart, and the chain bore heavy on my spirit. I was sosad that sometimes I wished I was back in the gutter again, whereno one was better than me, and some nights I wished I was dead. Ifit hadn't been for the Master being so kind, and that it would havelooked like I was blaming mother, I would have twisted my leash andhanged myself.
About a month after my fight, the word was passed through thekennels that the New York Show was coming, and such goings on asfollowed I never did see. If each of them had been matched to fightfor a thousand pounds and the gate, they couldn't have trained moreconscientious. But, perhaps, that's just my envy. The kennel-menrubbed 'em and scrubbed 'em and trims their hair and curls andcombs it, and some dogs they fatted, and some they starved. No onetalked of nothing but the Show, and the chances "our kennels" hadagainst the other kennels, and if this one of our champions wouldwin over that one, and whether them as hoped to be champions hadbetter show in the "open" or the "limit" class, and whether thisdog would beat his own dad, or whether his little puppy sistercouldn't beat the two of them. Even the grooms had their money up,and day or night you heard nothing but praises of "our" dogs, untilI, being so far out of it, couldn't have felt meaner if I had beenrunning the streets with a can to my tail. I knew shows were notfor such as me, and so I lay all day stretched at the end of mychain, pretending I was asleep, and only too glad that they hadsomething so important to think of, that they could leave mealone.
But one day before the Show opened, Miss Dorothy came to thestables with "Mr. Wyndham, sir," and seeing me chained up and somiserable, she takes me in her arms.
"You poor little tyke," says she. "It's cruel to tie him up so;he's eating his heart out, Nolan," she says. "I don't know nothingabout bull-terriers," says she, "but I think Kid's got goodpoints," says she, "and you ought to show him. Jimmy Jocks hasthree legs on the Rensselaer Cup now, and I'm going to show himthis time so that he can get the fourth, and if you wish, I'llenter your dog too. How would you like that, Kid?" says she. "Howwould you like to see the most beautiful dogs in the world? Maybe,you'd meet a pal or two," says she. "It would cheer you up,wouldn't it, Kid?" says she. But I was so upset, I could only wagmy tail most violent. "He says it would!" says she, though, beingthat excited, I hadn't said nothing.
So, "Mr. Wyndham, sir," laughs and takes out a piece of bluepaper, and sits down at the head-groom's table.
"What's the name of the father of your dog, Nolan?" says he. AndNolan says, "The man I got him off told me he was a son of ChampionRegent Royal, sir. But it don't seem likely, does it?" saysNolan.
"It does not!" says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," short-like.
"Aren't you sure, Nolan?" says Miss Dorothy.
"No, Miss," says the Master.
"Sire unknown," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," and writes it down.
"Date of birth?" asks "Mr. Wyndham, sir."
"I—I—unknown, sir," says Nolan. And "Mr. Wyndham,sir," writes it down.
"Breeder?" says "Mr. Wyndham, sir."
"Unknown," says Nolan, getting very red around the jaws, and Idrops my head and tail. And "Mr. Wyndham, sir," writes thatdown.
"Mother's name?" says "Mr. Wyndham, sir."
"She was a—unknown," says the Master. And I licks hishand.
"Dam unknown," says "Mr. Wyndham, sir," and writes it down. Thenhe takes the paper and reads out loud: "Sire unknown, dam unknown,breeder unknown, date of birth unknown. You'd better call him the'Great Unknown,'" says he. "Who's paying his entrance-fee?"
"I am," says Miss Dorothy.
Two weeks after we all got on a train for New York; Jimmy Jocksand me following Nolan in the smoking-car, and twenty-two of theSt. Bernards, in boxes and crates, and on chains and leashes. Sucha barking and howling I never did hear, and when they sees megoing, too, they laughs fit to kill.
"Wot is this; a circus?" says the railroad-man.
But I had no heart in it. I hated to go. I knew I was no "show"dog, even though Miss Dorothy and the Master did their best to keepme from shaming them. For before we set out Miss Dorothy brings aman from town who scrubbed and rubbed me, and sand-papered my tail,which hurt most awful, and shaved my ears with the Master's razor,so you could most see clear through 'em, and sprinkles me over withpipe- clay, till I shines like a Tommy's cross-belts.
"Upon my word!" says Jimmy Jocks when he first sees me. "What aswell you are! You're the image of your grand-dad when he made hisdebut at the Crystal Palace. He took four firsts and threespecials." But I knew he was only trying to throw heart into me.They might scrub, and they might rub, and they might pipe-clay, butthey couldn't pipe-clay the insides of me, and they wasblack-and-tan.
Then we came to a Garden, which it was not, but the biggest hallin the world. Inside there was lines of benches, a few miles long,and on them sat every dog in the world. If all the dog-snatchers inMontreal had worked night and day for a year, they couldn't havecaught so many dogs. And they was all shouting and barking andhowling so vicious, that my heart stopped beating. For at first Ithought they was all enraged at my presuming to intrude, but afterI got in my place, they kept at it just the same, barking at everydog as he come in; daring him to fight, and ordering him out, andasking him what breed of dog he thought he was, anyway. Jimmy Jockswas chained just behind me, and he said he never see so fine ashow. "That's a hot class you're in, my lad," he says, looking overinto my street, where there were thirty bull-terriers. They was allas white as cream, and each so beautiful that if I could have brokemy chain, I would have run all the way home and hid myself underthe horse- trough.
All night long they talked and sang, and passed greetings withold pals, and the home-sick puppies howled dismal. Them thatcouldn't sleep wouldn't let no others sleep, and all the electriclights burned in the roof, and in my eyes. I could hear Jimmy Jockssnoring peaceful, but I could only doze by jerks, and when I dozedI dreamed horrible. All the dogs in the hall seemed coming at mefor daring to intrude, with their jaws red and open, and their eyesblazing like the lights in the roof. "You're a street-dog! Get out,you street- dog!" they yells. And as they drives me out, thepipe-clay drops off me, and they laugh and shriek; and when I looksdown I see that I have turned into a black-and-tan.
They was most awful dreams, and next morning, when Miss Dorothycomes and gives me water in a pan, I begs and begs her to take mehome, but she can't understand. "How well Kid is!" she says. Andwhen I jumps into the Master's arms, and pulls to break my chain,he says, "If he knew all as he had against him, Miss, he wouldn'tbe so gay." And from a book they reads out the names of thebeautiful high-bred terriers which I have got to meet. And I can'tmake 'em understand that I only want to run away, and hide myselfwhere no one will see me.
Then suddenly men comes hurrying down our street and begins tobrush the beautiful bull-terriers, and Nolan rubs me with a towelso excited that his hands trembles awful, and Miss Dorothy tweaksmy ears between her gloves, so that the blood runs to 'em, and theyturn pink and stand up straight and sharp.
"Now, then, Nolan," says she, her voice shaking just like hisfingers, "keep his head up—and never let the Judge lose sightof him." When I hears that my legs breaks under me, for I knows allabout judges. Twice, the old Master goes up before the Judge forfighting me with other dogs, and the Judge promises him if he everdoes it again, he'll chain him up in jail. I knew he'd find me out.A Judge can't be fooled by no pipe-clay. He can see right throughyou, and he reads your insides.
The judging-ring, which is where the Judge holds out, was solike a fighting-pit, that when I came in it, and find six otherdogs there, I springs into position, so that when they lets us go Ican defend myself, But the Master smoothes down my hair andwhispers, "Hold 'ard, Kid, hold 'ard. This ain't a fight," says he."Look your prettiest," he whispers. "Please, Kid, look yourprettiest," and he pulls my leash so tight that I can't touch mypats to the sawdust, and my nose goes up in the air. There wasmillions of people a- watching us from the railings, and three ofour kennel-men, too, making fun of Nolan and me, and Miss Dorothywith her chin just reaching to the rail, and her eyes so big that Ithought she was a- going to cry. It was awful to think that whenthe Judge stood up and exposed me, all those people, and MissDorothy, would be there to see me driven from the show.
The Judge, he was a fierce-looking man with specs on his nose,and a red beard. When I first come in he didn't see me owing to mybeing too quick for him and dodging behind the Master. But when theMaster drags me round and I pulls at the sawdust to keep back, theJudge looks at us careless-like, and then stops and glares throughhis specs, and I knew it was all up with me.
"Are there any more?" asks the Judge, to the gentleman at thegate, but never taking his specs from me.
The man at the gate looks in his book. "Seven in thenovice-class," says he. "They're all here. You can go ahead," andhe shuts the gate.
The Judge, he doesn't hesitate a moment. He just waves his handtoward the corner of the ring. "Take him away," he says to theMaster. "Over there and keep him away," and he turns and looks mostsolemn at the six beautiful bull-terriers. I don't know how Icrawled to that corner. I wanted to scratch under the sawdust anddig myself a grave. The kennel-men they slapped the rail with theirhands and laughed at the Master like they would fall over. Theypointed at me in the corner, and their sides just shaked. Butlittle Miss Dorothy she presses her lips tight against the rail,and I see tears rolling from her eyes. The Master, he hangs hishead like he had been whipped. I felt most sorry for him, than all.He was so red, and he was letting on not to see the kennel-men, andblinking his eyes. If the Judge had ordered me right out, itwouldn't have disgraced us so, but it was keeping me there while hewas judging the high-bred dogs that hurt so hard. With all thosepeople staring too. And his doing it so quick, without no doubt norquestions. You can't fool the judges. They see insides you.
But he couldn't make up his mind about them high-bred dogs. Hescowls at 'em, and he glares at 'em, first with his head on the oneside and then on the other. And he feels of 'em, and orders 'em torun about. And Nolan leans against the rails, with his head hungdown, and pats me. And Miss Dorothy comes over beside him, butdon't say nothing, only wipes her eye with her finger. A man on theother side of the rail he says to the Master, "The Judge don't likeyour dog?"
"No," says the Master.
"Have you ever shown him before?" says the man.
"No," says the Master, "and I'll never show him again. He's mydog," says the Master, "an' he suits me! And I don't care what nojudges think." And when he says them kind words, I licks his handmost grateful.
The Judge had two of the six dogs on a little platform in themiddle of the ring, and he had chased the four other dogs into thecorners, where they was licking their chops, and letting on theydidn't care, same as Nolan was.
The two dogs on the platform was so beautiful that the Judgehisself couldn't tell which was the best of 'em, even when hestoops down and holds their heads together. But at last he gives asigh, and brushes the sawdust off his knees and goes to the tablein the ring, where there was a man keeping score, and heaps andheaps of blue and gold and red and yellow ribbons. And the Judgepicks up a bunch of 'em and walks to the two gentlemen who washolding the beautiful dogs, and he says to each "What's hisnumber?" and he hands each gentleman a ribbon. And then he turnedsharp, and comes straight at the Master.
"What's his number?" says the Judge. And Master was so scaredthat he couldn't make no answer.
But Miss Dorothy claps her hands and cries out like she waslaughing, "Three twenty-six," and the Judge writes it down, andshoves Master the blue ribbon.
I bit the Master, and I jumps and bit Miss Dorothy, and Iwaggled so hard that the Master couldn't hold me. When I get to thegate Miss Dorothy snatches me up and kisses me between the ears,right before millions of people, and they both hold me so tightthat I didn't know which of them was carrying of me. But one thingI knew, for I listened hard, as it was the Judge hisself as saidit.
"Did you see that puppy I gave 'first' to?" says the Judge tothe gentleman at the gate.
"I did. He was a bit out of his class," says thegate-gentleman.
"He certainly was!" says the Judge, and they both laughed.
But I didn't care. They couldn't hurt me then, not with Nolanholding the blue ribbon and Miss Dorothy hugging my ears, and thekennel-men sneaking away, each looking like he'd been caught withhis nose under the lid of the slop-can.
We sat down together, and we all three just talked as fast as wecould. They was so pleased that I couldn't help feeling proudmyself, and I barked and jumped and leaped about so gay, that allthe bull- terriers in our street stretched on their chains, andhowled at me.
"Just look at him!" says one of those I had beat. "What's hegiving hisself airs about?"
"Because he's got one blue ribbon!" says another of 'em. "Why,when I was a puppy I used to eat 'em, and if that Judge could everlearn to know a toy from a mastiff, I'd have had this one."
But Jimmy Jocks he leaned over from his bench, and says, "Welldone, Kid. Didn't I tell you so!" What he 'ad told me was that Imight get a "commended," but I didn't remind him.
"Didn't I tell you," says Jimmy Jocks, "that I saw yourgrandfather make his debut at the Crystal—"
"Yes, sir, you did, sir," says I, for I have no love for the menof my family.
A gentleman with a showing leash around his neck comes up justthen and looks at me very critical. "Nice dog you've got, MissWyndham," says he; "would you care to sell him?"
"He's not my dog," says Miss Dorothy, holding me tight. "I wishhe were."
"He's not for sale, sir," says the Master, and I was thatglad.
"Oh, he's yours, is he?" says the gentleman, looking hard atNolan. "Well, I'll give you a hundred dollars for him," says he,careless- like.
"Thank you, sir, he's not for sale," says Nolan, but his eyesget very big. The gentleman, he walked away, but I watches him, andhe talks to a man in a golf-cap, and by and by the man comes alongour street, looking at all the dogs, and stops in front of me.
"This your dog?" says he to Nolan. "Pity he's so leggy," sayshe. "If he had a good tail, and a longer stop, and his ears wereset higher, he'd be a good dog. As he is, I'll give you fiftydollars for him."
But before the Master could speak, Miss Dorothy laughs, andsays, "You're Mr. Polk's kennel-man, I believe. Well, you tell Mr.Polk from me that the dog's not for sale now any more than he wasfive minutes ago, and that when he is, he'll have to bid against mefor him." The man looks foolish at that, but he turns to Nolanquick- like. "I'll give you three hundred for him," he says.
"Oh, indeed!" whispers Miss Dorothy, like she was talking toherself. "That's it, is it," and she turns and looks at me just asthough she had never seen me before. Nolan, he was a gaping, too,with his mouth open. But he holds me tight.
"He's not for sale," he growls, like he was frightened, and theman looks black and walks away.
"Why, Nolan!" cries Miss Dorothy, "Mr. Polk knows more aboutbull- terriers than any amateur in America. What can he mean? Why,Kid is no more than a puppy! Three hundred dollars for apuppy!"
"And he ain't no thoroughbred neither!" cries the Master. "He's'Unknown,' ain't he? Kid can't help it, of course, but his mother,Miss—"
I dropped my head. I couldn't bear he should tell Miss Dorothy.I couldn't bear she should know I had stolen my blue ribbon.
But the Master never told, for at that, a gentleman runs up,calling, "Three Twenty-Six, Three Twenty-Six," and Miss Dorothysays, "Here he is, what is it?"
"The Winner's Class," says the gentleman "Hurry, please. TheJudge is waiting for him."
Nolan tries to get me off the chain onto a showing leash, but heshakes so, he only chokes me. "What is it, Miss?" he says. "What isit?"
"The Winner's Class," says Miss Dorothy. "The Judge wants himwith the winners of the other classes—to decide which is thebest. It's only a form," says she. "He has the champions againsthim now."
"Yes," says the gentleman, as he hurries us to the ring. "I'mafraid it's only a form for your dog, but the Judge wants all thewinners, puppy class even."
We had got to the gate, and the gentleman there was writing downmy number.
"Who won the open?" asks Miss Dorothy.
"Oh, who would?" laughs the gentleman. "The old champion, ofcourse. He's won for three years now. There he is. Isn't hewonderful?" says he, and he points to a dog that's standing proudand haughty on the platform in the middle of the ring.
I never see so beautiful a dog, so fine and clean and noble, sowhite like he had rolled hisself in flour, holding his nose up andhis eyes shut, same as though no one was worth looking at. Aside ofhim, we other dogs, even though we had a blue ribbon apiece, seemedlike lumps of mud. He was a royal gentleman, a king, he was. HisMaster didn't have to hold his head with no leash. He held ithisself, standing as still as an iron dog on a lawn, like he knewall the people was looking at him. And so they was, and no onearound the ring pointed at no other dog but him.
"Oh, what a picture," cried Miss Dorothy; "he's like a marblefigure by a great artist—one who loved dogs. Who is he?" saysshe, looking in her book. "I don't keep up with terriers."
"Oh, you know him," says the gentleman. "He is the Champion ofchampions, Regent Royal."
The Master's face went red.
"And this is Regent Royal's son," cries he, and he pulls mequick into the ring, and plants me on the platform next myfather.
I trembled so that I near fall. My legs twisted like a leash.But my father he never looked at me. He only smiled, the samesleepy smile, and he still keep his eyes half-shut, like as no one,no, not even his son, was worth his lookin' at.
The Judge, he didn't let me stay beside my father, but, one byone, he placed the other dogs next to him and measured and felt andpulled at them. And each one he put down, but he never put myfather down. And then he comes over and picks up me and sets meback on the platform, shoulder to shoulder with the Champion RegentRoyal, and goes down on his knees, and looks into our eyes.
The gentleman with my father, he laughs, and says to the Judge,"Thinking of keeping us here all day. John?" but the Judge, hedoesn't hear him, and goes behind us and runs his hand down myside, and holds back my ears, and takes my jaws between hisfingers. The crowd around the ring is very deep now, and nobodysays nothing. The gentleman at the score-table, he is leaningforward, with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes very wide, andthe gentleman at the gate is whispering quick to Miss Dorothy, whohas turned white. I stood as stiff as stone. I didn't even breathe.But out of the corner of my eye I could see my father licking hispink chops, and yawning just a little, like he was bored.
The Judge, he had stopped looking fierce, and was lookingsolemn. Something inside him seemed a troubling him awful. The morehe stares at us now, the more solemn he gets, and when he touchesus he does it gentle, like he was patting us. For a long time hekneels in the sawdust, looking at my father and at me, and no onearound the ring says nothing to nobody.
Then the Judge takes a breath and touches me sudden. "It's his,"he says, but he lays his hand just as quick on my father. "I'msorry," says he.
The gentleman holding my father cries:
"Do you mean to tell me—"
And the Judge, he answers, "I mean the other is the better dog."He takes my father's head between his hands and looks down at him,most sorrowful. "The King is dead," says he, "long live the King.Good-by, Regent," he says.
The crowd around the railings clapped their hands, and somelaughed scornful, and everyone talks fast, and I start for the gateso dizzy that I can't see my way. But my father pushes in front ofme, walking very daintily, and smiling sleepy, same as he had justbeen waked, with his head high, and his eyes shut, looking atnobody.
So that is how I "came by my inheritance," as Miss Dorothy callsit, and just for that, though I couldn't feel where I was anydifferent, the crowd follows me to my bench, and pats me, and coosat me, like I was a baby in a baby-carriage. And the handlers haveto hold 'em back so that the gentlemen from the papers can makepictures of me, and Nolan walks me up and down so proud, and themen shakes their heads and says, "He certainly is the true type, heis!" And the pretty ladies asks Miss Dorothy, who sits beside meletting me lick her gloves to show the crowd what friends we is,"Aren't you afraid he'll bite you?" and Jimmy Jocks calls to me,"Didn't I tell you so! I always knew you were one of us. Blood willout, Kid, blood will out. I saw your grandfather," says he, "makehis debut at the Crystal Palace. But he was never the dog youare!"
After that, if I could have asked for it, there was nothing Icouldn't get. You might have thought I was a snow-dog, and they wasafeerd I'd melt. If I wet my pats, Nolan gave me a hot bath andchained me to the stove; if I couldn't eat my food, being stuffedfull by the cook, for I am a house-dog now, and let in to lunchwhether there is visitors or not, Nolan would run to bring the vet.It was all tommy-rot, as Jimmy says, but meant most kind. Icouldn't scratch myself comfortable, without Nolan giving me nastydrinks, and rubbing me outside till it burnt awful, and I wasn'tlet to eat bones for fear of spoiling my "beautiful" mouth, whatmother used to call my "punishing jaw," and my food was cookedspecial on a gas-stove, and Miss Dorothy gives me an overcoat, cutvery stylish like the champions', to wear when we goes outcarriage-driving.
After the next show, where I takes three blue ribbons, foursilver cups, two medals, and brings home forty-five dollars forNolan, they gives me a "Registered" name, same as Jimmy's. MissDorothy wanted to call me "Regent Heir Apparent," but I was THATglad when Nolan says, "No, Kid don't owe nothing to his father,only to you and hisself. So, if you please, Miss, we'll call himWyndham Kid." And so they did, and you can see it on my overcoat inblue letters, and painted top of my kennel. It was all too hard tounderstand. For days I just sat and wondered if I was really me,and how it all come about, and why everybody was so kind. But, oh,it was so good they was, for if they hadn't been, I'd never havegot the thing I most wished after. But, because they was kind, andnot liking to deny me nothing, they gave it me, and it was more tome than anything in the world.
It came about one day when we was out driving. We was in thecart they calls the dog-cart, because it's the one Miss Dorothykeeps to take Jimmy and me for an airing. Nolan was up behind, andme in my new overcoat was sitting beside Miss Dorothy. I wasadmiring the view, and thinking how good it was to have a horsepull you about so that you needn't get yourself splashed and haveto be washed, when I hears a dog calling loud for help, and Ipricks up my ears and looks over the horse's head. And I seessomething that makes me tremble down to my toes. In the road beforeus three big dogs was chasing a little, old lady-dog. She had astring to her tail, where some boys had tied a can, and she wasdirty with mud and ashes, and torn most awful. She was too far doneup to get away, and too old to help herself, but she was making afight for her life, snapping her old gums savage, and dying game.All this I see in a wink, and then the three dogs pinned her down,and I can't stand it no longer and clears the wheel and lands inthe road on my head. It was my stylish overcoat done that, and Icurse it proper, but I gets my pats again quick, and makes a rushfor the fighting. Behind me I hear Miss Dorothy cry, "They'll killthat old dog. Wait, take my whip. Beat them off her! The Kid cantake care of himself," and I hear Nolan fall into the road, and thehorse come to a stop. The old lady-dog was down, and the three waseating her vicious, but as I come up, scattering the pebbles, shehears, and thinking it's one more of them, she lifts her head andmy heart breaks open like someone had sunk his teeth in it. For,under the ashes and the dirt and the blood, I can see who it is,and I know that my mother has come back to me.
I gives a yell that throws them three dogs off their legs.
"Mother!" I cries. "I'm the Kid," I cries. "I'm coming to you,mother, I'm coming."
And I shoots over her, at the throat of the big dog, and theother two, they sinks their teeth into that stylish overcoat, andtears it off me, and that sets me free, and I lets them have it. Inever had so fine a fight as that! What with mother being there tosee, and not having been let to mix up in no fights since I becomea prize-winner, it just naturally did me good, and it wasn't threeshakes before I had 'em yelping. Quick as a wink, mother, she jumpsin to help me, and I just laughed to see her. It was so like oldtimes. And Nolan, he made me laugh too. He was like a hen on abank, shaking the butt of his whip, but not daring to cut in forfear of hitting me.
"Stop it, Kid," he says, "stop it. Do you want to be all tornup?" says he. "Think of the Boston show next week," says he, "Thinkof Chicago. Think of Danbury. Don't you never want to be achampion?" How was I to think of all them places when I had threedogs to cut up at the same time. But in a minute two of 'em begsfor mercy, and mother and me lets 'em run away. The big one, heain't able to run away. Then mother and me, we dances and jumps,and barks and laughs, and bites each other and rolls each other inthe road. There never was two dogs so happy as we, and Nolan, hewhistles and calls and begs me to come to him, but I just laugh andplay larks with mother.
"Now, you come with me," says I, "to my new home, and never tryto run away again." And I shows her our house with the five redroofs, set on the top of the hill. But mother trembles awful, andsays: "They'd never let the likes of me in such a place. Does theViceroy live there, Kid?" says she. And I laugh at her. "No, I do,"I says; "and if they won't let you live there, too, you and me willgo back to the streets together, for we must never be parted nomore." So we trots up the hill, side by side, with Nolan trying tocatch me, and Miss Dorothy laughing at him from the cart.
"The Kid's made friends with the poor old dog," says she. "Maybehe knew her long ago when he ran the streets himself. Put her inhere beside me, and see if he doesn't follow."
So, when I hears that, I tells mother to go with Nolan and sitin the cart, but she says no, that she'd soil the pretty lady'sfrock; but I tells her to do as I say, and so Nolan lifts her,trembling still, into the cart, and I runs alongside, barkingjoyful.
When we drives into the stables I takes mother to my kennel, andtells her to go inside it and make herself at home. "Oh, but hewon't let me!" says she.
"Who won't let you?" says I, keeping my eye on Nolan, andgrowling a bit nasty, just to show I was meaning to have my way."Why, Wyndham Kid," says she, looking up at the name on mykennel.
"But I'm Wyndham Kid!" says I.
"You!" cries mother. "You! Is my little Kid the great WyndhamKid the dogs all talk about?" And at that, she, being very old, andsick, and hungry, and nervous, as mothers are, just drops down inthe straw and weeps bitter.
Well, there ain't much more than that to tell. Miss Dorothy, shesettled it.
"If the Kid wants the poor old thing in the stables," says she,"let her stay."
"You see," says she, "she's a black-and-tan, and his mother wasa black-and-tan, and maybe that's what makes Kid feel so friendlytoward her," says she.
"Indeed, for me," says Nolan, "she can have the best there is.I'd never drive out no dog that asks for a crust nor a shelter," hesays. "But what will Mr. Wyndham do?"
"He'll do what I say," says Miss Dorothy, "and if I say she's tostay, she will stay, and I say—she's to stay!"
And so mother and Nolan, and me, found a home. Mother was scaredat first—not being used to kind people—but she was sogentle and loving, that the grooms got fonder of her than of me,and tried to make me jealous by patting of her, and giving her thepick of the vittles. But that was the wrong way to hurt myfeelings. That's all, I think. Mother is so happy here that I tellher we ought to call it the Happy Hunting Grounds, because no onehunts you, and there is nothing to hunt; it just all comes to you.And so we live in peace, mother sleeping all day in the sun, orbehind the stove in the head- groom's office, being fed twice a dayregular by Nolan, and all the day by the other grooms mostirregular, And, as for me, I go hurrying around the country to thebench-shows; winning money and cups for Nolan, and taking the blueribbons away from father.
When the war-ships of a navy lie cleared for action outside aharbor, and the war-ships of the country with which they are at warlie cleared for action inside the harbor, there is likely to betrouble. Trouble between war-ships is news, and wherever there isnews there is always a representative of the ConsolidatedPress.
As long as Sampson blockaded Havana and the army beat time backof the Tampa Bay Hotel, the central office for news was at KeyWest, but when Cervera slipped into Santiago Harbor and Sampsonstationed his battle-ships at its mouth, Key West lost her onlyexcuse for existence, and the press-boats burled their bows in thewaters of the Florida Straits and raced for the cable-station atPort Antonio. It was then that Keating, the "star" man of theConsolidated Press Syndicate, was forced to abandon his young brideand the rooms he had engaged for her at the Key West Hotel, andaccompany his tug to the distant island of Jamaica.
Keating was a good and faithful servant to the ConsolidatedPress. He was a correspondent after its own making, an industriouscollector of facts. The Consolidated Press did not ask him tocomment on what it sent him to see; it did not require nor desirehis editorial opinions or impressions. It was no part of his workto go into the motives which led to the event of news interestwhich he was sent to report, nor to point out what there was of itwhich was dramatic, pathetic, or outrageous.
The Consolidated Press, being a mighty corporation, which dailyfed seven hundred different newspapers, could not hope to pleasethe policy of each, so it compromised by giving the facts of theday fairly set down, without heat, prejudice, or enthusiasm. Thiswas an excellent arrangement for the papers that subscribed for theservice of the Consolidated Press, but it was death to the literarystrivings of the Consolidated Press correspondents.
"We do not want descriptive writing," was the warning which themanager of the great syndicate was always flashing to itscorrespondents. "We do not pay you to send us pen-pictures or prosepoems. We want the facts, all the facts, and nothing but thefacts."
And so, when at a presidential convention a theatrical speakersat down after calling James G. Blaine "a plumed knight," each ofthe "special" correspondents present wrote two columns in an effortto describe how the people who heard the speech behaved inconsequence, but the Consolidated Press man telegraphed, "At theconclusion of these remarks the cheering lasted sixteenminutes."
No event of news value was too insignificant to escape thewatchfulness of the Consolidated Press, none so great that it couldnot handle it from its inception up to the moment when it ceased tobe quoted in the news-market of the world. Each night, fromthousands of spots all over the surface of the globe, it receivedthousands of facts, of cold, accomplished facts. It knew that atidal wave had swept through China, a cabinet had changed in Chili,in Texas an express train had been held up and robbed, "Spike"Kennedy had defeated the "Dutchman" in New Orleans, the Oregon hadcoaled outside of Rio Janeiro Harbor, the Cape Verde fleet had beenseen at anchor off Cadiz; it had been located in the harbor of SanJuan, Porto Rico; it had been sighted steaming slowly past FortressMonroe; and the Navy Department reported that the St. Paul haddiscovered the lost squadron of Spain in the harbor of Santiago.This last fact was the one which sent Keating to Jamaica. Where hewas sent was a matter of indifference to Keating. He had worn thecollar of the Consolidated Press for so long a time that he wascallous. A board meeting—a mine disaster—an Indianuprising—it was all one to Keating. He collected facts andhis salary. He had no enthusiasms, he held no illusions. Theprestige of the mammoth syndicate he represented gained him anaudience where men who wrote for one paper only were repulsed onthe threshold. Senators, governors, the presidents of great trustsand railroad systems, who fled from the reporter of a local paperas from a leper, would send for Keating and dictate to him whateverit was they wanted the people of the United States to believe, forwhen they talked to Keating they talked to many millions ofreaders. Keating, in turn, wrote out what they had said to him andtransmitted it, without color or bias, to the clearinghouse of theConsolidated Press. His "stories," as all newspaper writings arecalled by men who write them, were as picturesque reading as thequotations of a stock- ticker. The personal equation appeared nomore offensively than it does in a page of typewriting in hiswork.
Consequently, he was dear to the heart of the ConsolidatedPress, and, as a "safe" man, was sent to the beautiful harbor ofSantiago— to a spot where there were war-ships cleared foraction, Cubans in ambush, naked marines fighting for a foothold atGuantanamo, palm- trees and coral-reefs—in order that hemight look for "facts."
There was not a newspaper man left at Key West who did notwrithe with envy and anger when he heard of it. When the wire wasclosed for the night, and they had gathered at Josh Kerry's,Keating was the storm-centre of their indignation.
"What a chance!" they protested. "What a story! It's the chanceof a lifetime." They shook their heads mournfully and lashedthemselves with pictures of its possibilities.
"And just fancy its being wasted on old Keating," said theJournal man. "Why, everything's likely to happen out there, andwhatever does happen, he'll make it read like a CongressionalRecord. Why, when I heard of it I cabled the office that if thepaper would send me I'd not ask for any salary for six months."
"And Keating's kicking because he has to go," growled the Sunman. "Yes, he is, I saw him last night, and he was sore becausehe'd just moved his wife down here. He said if he'd known this wascoming he'd have let her stay in New York. He says he'll lose moneyon this assignment, having to support himself and his wife in twodifferent places."
Norris, "the star man" of the World, howled withindignation.
"Good Lord!" he said, "is that all he sees in it? Why, therenever was such a chance. I tell you, some day soon all of thosewar-ships will let loose at each other and there will be the beststory that ever came over the wire, and if there isn't, it's aregular loaf anyway. It's a picnic, that's what it is, at theexpense of the Consolidated Press. Why, he ought to pay them to lethim go. Can't you see him, confound him, sitting under a palm-treein white flannels, with a glass of Jamaica rum in his fist, whilewe're dodging yellow fever on this coral-reef, and losing oursalaries on a crooked roulette-wheel."
"I wonder what Jamaica rum is like as a steady drink," mused theex- baseball reporter, who had been converted into awar-correspondent by the purchase of a white yachting-cap.
"It won't be long before Keating finds out," said the Journalman.
"Oh, I didn't know that," ventured the new reporter, who hadjust come South from Boston. "I thought he didn't drink. I neversee Keating in here with the rest of the boys."
"You wouldn't," said Norris. "He only comes in here by himself,and he drinks by himself. He's one of those confidential drunkards,You give some men whiskey, and it's like throwing kerosene on afire, isn't it? It makes them wave their arms about and talk loudand break things, but you give it to another man and it's likethrowing kerosene on a cork mat. It just soaks in. That's whatKeating is. He's a sort of a cork mat."
"I shouldn't think the C. P. would stand for that," said theBoston man.
"It wouldn't, if it ever interfered with his work, but he'snever fallen down on a story yet. And the sort of stuff he writesis machine-made; a man can write C. P. stuff in his sleep."
One of the World men looked up and laughed.
"I wonder if he'll run across Channing out there," he said. Themen at the table smiled, a kindly, indulgent smile. The name seemedto act upon their indignation as a shower upon the close air of asummer-day. "That's so," said Norris. "He wrote me last month fromPort-au-Prince that he was moving on to Jamaica. He wrote me fromthat club there at the end of the wharf. He said he was at thatmoment introducing the President to a new cocktail, and as he hadno money to pay his passage to Kingston he was trying to persuadehim to send him on there as his Haitian Consul. He said in case hecouldn't get appointed Consul, he had an offer to go as cook on afruit- tramp."
The men around the table laughed. It was the pleased, proudlaugh that flutters the family dinner-table when the infant son andheir says something precocious and impudent.
"Who is Channing?" asked the Boston man.
There was a pause, and the correspondents looked at Norris.
"Channing is a sort of a derelict," he said. "He drifted intoNew York last Christmas from the Omaha Bee. He's been on prettynearly every paper in the country."
"What's he doing in Haiti?"
"He went there on the Admiral Decatur to write a filibusteringstory about carrying arms across to Cuba. Then the war broke outand he's been trying to get back to Key West, and now, of course,he'll make for Kingston. He cabled me yesterday, at my expense, totry and get him a job on our paper. If the war hadn't come on hehad a plan to beat his way around the world. And he'd have done it,too. I never saw a man who wouldn't help Charlie along, or lend hima dollar." He glanced at the faces about him and winked at theBoston man. "They all of them look guilty, don't they?" hesaid.
"Charlie Channing," murmured the baseball reporter, gently, asthough he were pronouncing the name of a girl. He raised his glass."Here's to Charlie Channing," he repeated. Norris set down hisempty glass and showed it to the Boston man.
"That's his only enemy," he said. "Write! Heavens, how that mancan write, and he'd almost rather do anything else. There isn't apaper in New York that wasn't glad to get him, but they couldn'tkeep him a week. It was no use talking to him. Talk! I've talked tohim until three o'clock in the morning. Why, it was I made him sendhis first Chinatown story to the International Magazine, and theytook it like a flash and wrote him for more, but he blew in thecheck they sent him and didn't even answer their letter. He saidafter he'd had the fun of writing a story, he didn't care whetherit was published in a Sunday paper or in white vellum, or neverpublished at all. And so long as he knew he wrote it, he didn'tcare whether anyone else knew it or not. Why, when that Englishreviewer—what's his name—that friend ofKipling's—passed through New York, he said to a lot of us atthe Press Club, 'You've got a young man here on Park Row—anopium-eater, I should say, by the look of him, who if he would workand leave whiskey alone, would make us all sweat.' That's just whathe said, and he's the best in England!"
"Charlie's a genius," growled the baseball reporter, defiantly."I say, he's a genius."
The Boston man shook his head. "My boy," he began,sententiously, "genius is nothing more than hard work, and aman—"
Norris slapped the table with his hand.
"Oh, no, it's not," he jeered, fiercely, "and don't you go offbelieving it is, neither. I've worked. I've worked twelve hours aday. Keating even has worked eighteen hours a day—all hislife—but we never wrote 'The Passing of the Highbinders,' northe 'Ships that Never Came Home,' nor 'Tales of the Tenderloin,'and we never will. I'm a better news-gatherer than Charlie, I cancollect facts and I can put them together well enough, too, so thatif a man starts to read my story he'll probably follow it to thebottom of the column, and he may turn over the page, too. But Ican't say the things, because I can't see the things that Charliesees. Why, one night we sent him out on a big railroad-story. Itwas a beat, we'd got it by accident, and we had it all toourselves, but Charlie came across a blind beggar on Broadway witha dead dog. The dog had been run over, and the blind beggarcouldn't find his way home without him, and was sitting on thecurb-stone, weeping over the mongrel. Well, when Charlie came backto the office he said he couldn't find out anything about thatrailroad deal, but that he'd write them a dog-story. Of course,they were raging crazy, but he sat down just as though it was noconcern of his, and, sure enough, he wrote the dog-story. And thenext day over five hundred people stopped in at the office on theirway downtown and left dimes and dollars to buy that man a new dog.Now, hard work won't do that."
Keating had been taking breakfast in the ward-room of H. M. S.Indefatigable. As an acquaintance the officers had not found him anundoubted acquisition, but he was the representative of sevenhundred papers, and when the Indefatigable's ice-machine broke, hehad loaned the officers' mess a hundred pounds of it from his ownboat.
The cruiser's gig carried Keating to the wharf, the crew tossedtheir oars and the boatswain touched his cap and asked,mechanically, "Shall I return to the ship, sir?"
Channing, stretched on the beach, with his back to a palm-tree,observed the approach of Keating with cheerful approbation.
"It is gratifying to me," he said, "to see the press treatedwith such consideration. You came in just like Cleopatra in herbarge. If the flag had been flying, and you hadn't steered sobadly, I should have thought you were at least an admiral. How manyguns does the British Navy give a Consolidated Press reporter whenhe comes over the side?"
Keating dropped to the sand and, crossing his legs under him,began tossing shells at the water.
"They gave this one a damned good breakfast," he said, "and somevery excellent white wine. Of course, the ice-machine was broken,it always is, but then Chablis never should be iced, if it's thereal thing."
"Chablis! Ice! Hah!" snorted Channing. "Listen to him! Do youknow what I had for breakfast?"
Keating turned away uncomfortably and looked toward the ships inthe harbor.
"Well, never mind," said Channing, yawning luxuriously. "The sunis bright, the sea is blue, and the confidences of this old palmare soothing. He's a great old gossip, this palm." He looked upinto the rustling fronds and smiled. "He whispers me to sleep," hewent on, "or he talks me awake—talks about all sorts ofthings—things he has seen—cyclones, wrecks, and strangeships and Cuban refugees and Spanish spies and lovers that meethere on moonlight nights. It's always moonlight in Port Antonio,isn't it?"
"You ought to know, you've been here longer than I," saidKeating.
"And how do you like it, now that you have got to know itbetter? Pretty heavenly? eh?"
"Pretty heavenly!" snorted Keating. "Pretty much the otherplace! What good am I doing? What's the sense of keeping me here?Cervera isn't going to come out, and the people at Washington won'tlet Sampson go in. Why, those ships have been there a month now,and they'll be there just where they are now when you and I arebald. I'm no use here. All I do is to thrash across there every dayand eat up more coal than the whole squadron burns in a month. Why,that tug of mine's costing the C. P. six hundred dollars a day, andI'm not sending them news enough to pay for setting it up. Have youseen 'em yet?"
"Seen what? Your stories?"
"No, the ships!"
"Yes, Scudder took me across once in the Iduna. I haven't got apaper yet, so I couldn't write anything, but—"
"Well, you've seen all there is to it, then; you wouldn't seeany more if you went over every day. It's just the same oldharbor-mouth, and the same old Morro Castle, and same old ships,drifting up and down; the Brooklyn, full of smoke-stacks, and theNew York, with her two bridges, and all the rest of them lookingjust as they've looked for the last four weeks. There's nothing inthat. Why don't they send me to Tampa with the army andShafter—that's where the story is."
"Oh, I don't know," said Channing, shaking his head. "I thoughtit was bully!"
"Bully, what was bully?"
"Oh, the picture," said Channing, doubtfully, "and—andwhat it meant. What struck me about it was that it was so hot, andlazy, and peaceful, that they seemed to be just drifting about,just what you complain of. I don't know what I expected to see; Ithink I expected they'd be racing around in circles, tearing up thewater and throwing broadsides at Morro Castle as fast asfire-crackers.
"But they lay broiling there in the heat just as though theywere becalmed. They seemed to be asleep on their anchor-chains. Itreminded me of a big bull-dog lying in the sun with his head on hispaws and his eyes shut. You think he's asleep, and you try totiptoe past him, but when you're in reach of his chain—he'sat your throat, what? It seemed so funny to think of our beingreally at war. I mean the United States, and with such anold-established firm as Spain. It seems so presumptuous in a youngrepublic, as though we were strutting around, singing, 'I'm gettinga big boy now.' I felt like saying, 'Oh, come off, and stop playingyou're a world power, and get back into your red sash andknickerbockers, or you'll get spanked!' It seems as though we mustbe such a lot of amateurs. But when I went over the side of the NewYork I felt like kneeling down on her deck and begging every jackeyto kick me. I felt about as useless as a fly on alocomotive-engine. Amateurs! Why, they might have been in thebusiness since the days of the ark; all of them might have beendescended from bloody pirates; they twisted those eight-inch gunsaround for us just as though they were bicycles, and the whole shipmoved and breathed and thought, too, like a human being, and allthe captains of the other war-ships about her were watching for herto give the word. All of them stripped and eager andready—like a lot of jockeys holding in the big race-horses,and each of them with his eyes on the starter. And I liked the waythey all talk about Sampson, and the way the ships move over thestations like parts of one machine, just as he had told them todo.
"Scudder introduced me to him, and he listened while we did thetalking, but it was easy to see who was the man in the ConningTower. Keating—my boy!" Channing cried, sitting upright inhis enthusiasm, "he's put a combination-lock on that harbor thatcan't be picked—and it'll work whether Sampson's asleep inhis berth, or fifteen miles away, or killed on the bridge. Hedoesn't have to worry, he knows his trap will work—he oughtto, he set it."
Keating shrugged his shoulders, tolerantly.
"Oh, I see that side of it," he assented. "I see all there is init for YOU, the sort of stuff you write, Sunday-special stuff, butthere's no NEWS in it. I'm not paid to write mail-letters, and I'mnot down here to interview palm-trees either."
"Why, you old fraud!" laughed Channing. "You know you're havingthe time of your life here. You're the pet of Kingstonsociety—you know you are. I only wish I were half as popular.I don't seem to belong, do I? I guess it's my clothes. That EnglishColonel at Kingston always scowls at me as though he'd like to putme in irons, and whenever I meet our Consul he sees something verypeculiar on the horizon-line."
Keating frowned for a moment in silence, and then coughed,consciously.
"Channing," he began, uncomfortably, "you ought to braceup."
"Brace up?" asked Channing.
"Well, it isn't fair to the rest of us," protested Keating,launching into his grievance. "There's only a few of us here, andwe—we think you ought to see that and not give the crowd abad name. All the other correspondents have some regardfor—for their position and for the paper, but you loaf aroundhere looking like an old tramp—like any old beach-comber, andit queers the rest of us. Why, those English artillerymen at theClub asked me about you, and when I told them you were a New Yorkcorrespondent they made all sorts of jokes about Americannewspapers, and what could I say?"
Channing eyed the other man with keen delight.
"I see, by Jove! I'm sorry," he said. But the next moment helaughed, and then apologized, remorsefully.
"Indeed, I beg your pardon," he begged, "but it struck me as asort of—I had no idea you fellows were such swells—Iknew I was a social outcast, but I didn't know my being a socialoutcast was hurting anyone else. Tell me some more."
"Well, that's all," said Keating, suspiciously. "The fellowsasked me to speak to you about it and to tell you to take a brace.Now, for instance, we have a sort of mess-table at the hotels andwe'd like to ask you to belong, but—well—you see how itis—we have the officers to lunch whenever they're on shore,and you're so disreputable"— Keating scowled at Channing, andconcluded, impotently, "Why don't you get yourself some decentclothes and—and a new hat?"
Channing removed his hat to his knee and stroked it withaffectionate pity.
"It is a shocking bad hat," he said. "Well, go on."
"Oh, it's none of my business," exclaimed Keating, impatiently."I'm just telling you what they're saying. Now, there's the Cubanrefugees, for instance. No one knows what they're doing here, orwhether they're real Cubans or Spaniards."
"Well, what of it?"
"Why, the way you go round with them and visit them, it's nowonder they say you're a spy."
Channing stared incredulously, and then threw back his head andlaughed with a shout of delight.
"They don't, do they?" he asked.
"Yes, they do, since you think it's so funny. If it hadn't beenfor us the day you went over to Guantanamo the marines would havehad you arrested and court-martialed."
Channing's face clouded with a quick frown, "Oh," he exclaimed,in a hurt voice, "they couldn't have thought that."
"Well, no," Keating admitted grudgingly, "not after the fight,perhaps, but before that, when you were snooping around the camplike a Cuban after rations." Channing recognized the picture with alaugh.
"I do," he said, "I do. But you should have had mecourt-martialed and shot; it would have made a good story. 'Ourreporter shot as a spy, his last words were—' what were mylast words, Keating?"
Keating turned upon him with impatience, "But why do you do it?"he demanded. "Why don't you act like the rest of us? Why do youhang out with all those filibusters and runaway Cubans?"
"They have been very kind to me," said Channing, soberly. "Theyare a very courteous race, and they have ideas of hospitality whichmake the average New Yorker look like a dog hiding a bone."
"Oh, I suppose you mean that for us," demanded Keating. "That'sa slap at me, eh?"
Channing gave a sigh and threw himself back against the trunk ofthe palm, with his hands clasped behind his head.
"Oh, I wasn't thinking of you at all, Keating," he said. "Idon't consider you in the least." He stretched himself and yawnedwearily. "I've got troubles of my own." He sat up suddenly andadjusted the objectionable hat to his head.
"Why don't you wire the C. P.," he asked, briskly, "and see ifthey don't want an extra man? It won't cost you anything to wire,and I need the job, and I haven't the money to cable."
"The Consolidated Press," began Keating, jealously."Why—well, you know what the Consolidated Press is? Theydon't want descriptive writers—and I've got all the men Ineed."
Keating rose and stood hesitating in some embarrassment. "I'lltell you what I could do, Channing," he said, "I could take you onas a stoker, or steward, say. They're always deserting andmutinying; I have to carry a gun on me to make them mind. How wouldyou like that? Forty dollars a month, and eat with the crew?"
For a moment Channing stood in silence, smoothing the sand withthe sole of his shoe. When he raised his head his face wasflushing.
"Oh, thank you," he said. "I think I'll keep on trying for apaper— I'll try a little longer. I want to see something ofthis war, of course, and if I'm not too lazy I'd like to writesomething about it, but—well—I'm much obliged to you,anyway."
"Of course, if it were my money, I'd take you on at once," saidKeating, hurriedly.
Channing smiled and nodded. "You're very kind," he answered."Well, good-by."
A half-hour later, in the smoking-room of the hotel, Keatingaddressed himself to a group of correspondents.
"There is no doing anything with that man Channing," he said, ina tone of offended pride. "I offered him a good job and he wouldn'ttake it. Because he got a story in the International Magazine, he'sstuck on himself, and he won't hustle for news—he wants towrite pipe-dreams. What the public wants just now is news."
"That's it," said one of the group, "and we must give it tothem— even if we have to fake it."
Great events followed each other with great rapidity. The armyceased beating time, shook itself together, adjusted its armor andmoved, and, to the delight of the flotilla of press-boats at PortAntonio, moved, not as it had at first intended, to the north coastof Cuba, but to Santiago, where its transports were within reach oftheir megaphones.
"Why, everything's coming our way now!" exclaimed the Worldmanager in ecstasy. "We've got the transports to starboard atSiboney, and the war-ships to port at Santiago, and all we'll needto do is to sit on the deck with a field-glass, and take down thenews with both hands."
Channing followed these events with envy. Once or twice, as aspecial favor, the press-boats carried him across to Siboney andDaiquiri, and he was able to write stories of what he saw there; ofthe landing of the army, of the wounded after the Guasimas fight,and of the fever-camp at Siboney. His friends on the press-boatssent this work home by mail on the chance that the Sunday editormight take it at space rates. But mail matter moved slowly and thearmy moved quickly, and events crowded so closely upon each otherthat Channing's stories, when they reached New York, were ancienthistory and were unpublished, and, what was of more importance tohim, unpaid for. He had no money now, and he had become abeach-comber in the real sense of the word. He slept the warmnights away among the bananas and cocoanuts on the Fruit Company'swharf, and by calling alternately on his Cuban exiles and thedifferent press-boats, he was able to obtain a meal a day withoutarousing any suspicions in the minds of his hosts that it was hisonly one.
He was sitting on the stringer of the pier-head one morning,waiting for a press-boat from the "front," when the Three Friendsran in and lowered her dingy, and the "World" manager came ashore,clasping a precious bundle of closely written cable-forms. Channingscrambled to his feet and hailed him.
"Have you heard from the chief about me yet?" he asked. The"World" man frowned and stammered, and then, taking Channing by thearm, hurried with him toward the cable-office.
"Charlie, I think they're crazy up there," he began, "they thinkthey know it all. Here I am on the spot, but they think—"
"You mean they won't have me," said Channing. "But why?" heasked, patiently. "They used to give me all the space Iwanted."
"Yes, I know, confound them, and so they should now," said the"World" man, with sympathetic indignation. "But here's their cable;you can see it's not my fault." He read the message aloud."Channing, no. Not safe, take reliable man from Siboney." He foldedthe cablegram around a dozen others and stuck it back in hiship-pocket.
"What queered you, Charlie," he explained, importantly, "wasthat last break of yours, New Year's, when you didn't turn up for aweek. It was once too often, and the chief's had it in for you eversince. You remember?"
Channing screwed up his lips in an effort of recollection.
"Yes, I remember," he answered, slowly. "It began on New Year'seve in Perry's drug-store, and I woke up a week later in a hack inBoston. So I didn't have such a run for my money, did I? Not goodenough to have to pay for it like this. I tell you," he burst outsuddenly, "I feel like hell being left out of this war, with allthe rest of the boys working so hard. If it weren't playing it lowdown on the fellows that have been in it from the start, I'd liketo enlist. But they enlisted for glory, and I'd only do it becauseI can't see the war any other way, and it doesn't seem fair tothem. What do you think?"
"Oh, don't do that," protested the World manager. "You stick toyour own trade. We'll get you something to do. Have you tried theConsolidated Press yet?"
Channing smiled grimly at the recollection.
"Yes, I tried it first."
"It would be throwing pearls to swine to have you write forthem, I know, but they're using so many men now. I should think youcould get on their boat."
"No, I saw Keating," Channing explained. "He said I could comealong as a stoker, and I guess I'll take him up, itseems—"
"Keating said—what?" exclaimed the "World" man. "Keating?Why, he stands to lose his own job, if he isn't careful. If itwasn't that he's just married, the C. P. boys would have reportedhim a dozen times."
"Reported him, what for?"
"Why—you know. His old complaint."
"Oh, that," said Channing. "My old complaint?" he added.
"Well, yes, but Keating hasn't been sober for two weeks, andhe'd have fallen down on the Guasimas story if those men hadn'tpulled him through. They had to, because they're in the syndicate.He ought to go shoot himself; he's only been married three monthsand he's handling the biggest piece of news the country's had inthirty years, and he can't talk straight. There's a time foreverything, I say," growled the "World" man.
"It takes it out of a man, this boat-work," Channing ventured,in extenuation. "It's very hard on him."
"You bet it is," agreed the "World" manager, with enthusiasm."Sloshing about in those waves, sea-sick mostly, and wet all thetime, and with a mutinous crew, and so afraid you'll miss somethingthat you can't write what you have got." Then he added, as anafter- thought, "And our cruisers thinking you're a Spanishtorpedo-boat and chucking shells at you."
"No wonder Keating drinks," Channing said, gravely. "You make itseem almost necessary."
Many thousand American soldiers had lost themselves in a jungle,and had broken out of it at the foot of San Juan Hill. Not wishingto return into the jungle, they took the hill. On the day they didthis Channing had the good fortune to be in Siboney. The "World"man had carried him there and asked him to wait around thewaterfront while he went up to the real front, thirteen milesinland. Channing's duty was to signal the press-boat when the firstdespatch-rider rode in with word that the battle was on. The Worldman would have liked to ask Channing to act as his despatch-rider,but he did not do so, because the despatch-riders were eitherJamaica negroes or newsboys from Park Row—and he rememberedthat Keating had asked Channing to be his stoker.
Channing tramped through the damp, ill-smelling sand of thebeach, sick with self-pity. On the other side of those glaring,inscrutable mountains, a battle, glorious, dramatic, and terrible,was going forward, and he was thirteen miles away. He was at thebase, with the supplies, the sick, and the skulkers.
It was cruelly hot. The heat-waves flashed over the sea untilthe transports in the harbor quivered like pictures on a biograph.From the refuse of company kitchens, from reeking huts, fromthousands of empty cans, rose foul, enervating odors, whichdeadened the senses like a drug. The atmosphere steamed with aheavy, moist humidity. Channing staggered and sank down suddenly ona pile of railroad-ties in front of the commissary's depot. Therewere some Cubans seated near him, dividing their Governmentrations, and the sight reminded him that he had had nothing to eat.He walked over to the wide door of the freight-depot, where awhite-haired, kindly faced, and perspiring officer was, with hisown hands, serving out canned beef to a line of Cubans. Theofficer's flannel shirt was open at the throat. The shoulder-strapsof a colonel were fastened to it by safety-pins. Channing smiled athim uneasily.
"Could I draw on you for some rations?" he asked. "I'm from theThree Friends. I'm not one of their regular accreditedcorrespondents," he added, conscientiously, "I'm just helping themfor to-day."
"Haven't you got a correspondent's pass?" asked the officer. Hewas busily pouring square hardtack down the throat of a saddle-baga Cuban soldier held open before him.
"No," said Channing, turning away, "I'm just helping."
The officer looked after him, and what he saw caused him toreach under the counter for a tin cup and a bottle oflime-juice.
"Here," he said, "drink this. What's the matter withyou—fever? Come in here out of that sun. You can lie down onmy cot, if you like."
Channing took the tin cup and swallowed a warm mixture of boiledwater and acrid lime-juice.
"Thank you," he said, "but I must keep watch for the first newsfrom the front."
A man riding a Government mule appeared on the bridge of thelower trail, and came toward them at a gallop. He was followed andsurrounded by a hurrying mob of volunteers, hospital stewards, andCubans.
The Colonel vaulted the counter and ran to meet him.
"This looks like news from the front now," he cried.
The man on the mule was from civil life. His eyes bulged fromtheir sockets and his face was purple. The sweat ran over it andglistened on the cords of his thick neck.
"They're driving us back!" he shrieked.
"Chaffee's killed, an' Roosevelt's killed, an' the whole army'sbeaten!" He waved his arms wildly toward the glaring, inscrutablemountains. The volunteers and stevedores and Cubans heard him,open- mouthed and with panic-stricken eyes. In the pitilesssunlight he was a hideous and awful spectacle.
"They're driving us into the sea!" he foamed.
"We've got to get out of here, they're just behind me. Thearmy's running for its life. They're running away!"
Channing saw the man dimly, through a cloud that came betweenhim and the yellow sunlight. The man in the saddle swayed, thegroup about him swayed, like persons on the floor of a vastball-room. Inside he burned with a mad, fierce hatred for thisshrieking figure in the saddle. He raised the tin cup and hurled itso that it hit the man's purple face.
"You lie!" Channing shouted, staggering. "You lie! You're adamned coward. You lie!" He heard his voice repeating this indifferent places at greater distances. Then the cloud closed abouthim, shutting out the man in the saddle, and the glaring,inscrutable mountains, and the ground at his feet rose and struckhim in the face.
Channing knew he was on a boat because it lifted and sank withhim, and he could hear the rush of her engines. When he opened hiseyes he was in the wheel-house of the Three Friends, and hercaptain was at the wheel, smiling down at him. Channing raisedhimself on his elbow.
"The despatch-rider?" he asked.
"That's all right," said the captain, soothingly. "Don't youworry. He come along same time you fell, and brought you out to us.What ailed you—sunstroke?"
Channing sat up. "I guess so," he said.
When the Three Friends reached Port Antonio, Channing sought outthe pile of coffee-bags on which he slept at night and dropped uponthem. Before this he had been careful to avoid the place in thedaytime, so that no one might guess that it was there that he sleptat night, but this day he felt that if he should drop in the gutterhe would not care whether anyone saw him there or not. His limbswere hot and heavy and refused to support him, his bones burnedlike quicklime.
The next morning, with the fever still upon him, he hurriedrestlessly between the wharves and the cable-office, seeking fornews. There was much of it; it was great and trying news, thesituation outside of Santiago was grim and critical. The men whohad climbed San Juan Hill were clinging to it like sailorsshipwrecked on a reef unwilling to remain, but unable to depart. Ifthey attacked the city Cervera promised to send it crashing abouttheir ears. They would enter Santiago only to find it in ruins. Ifthey abandoned the hill, 2,000 killed and wounded would have beensacrificed in vain.
The war-critics of the press-boats and of the Twitchell Housesaw but two courses left open. Either Sampson must force the harborand destroy the squadron, and so make it possible for the army toenter the city, or the army must be reinforced with artillery andtroops in sufficient numbers to make it independent of Sampson andindifferent to Cervera.
On the night of July 2d, a thousand lies, a thousand rumors, athousand prophecies rolled through the streets of Port Antonio,were filed at the cable-office, and flashed to the bulletin-boardsof New York City.
That morning, so they told, the batteries on Morro Castle hadsunk three of Sampson's ships; the batteries on Morro Castle hadsurrendered to Sampson; General Miles with 8,000 reinforcements hadsailed from Charleston; eighty guns had started from Tampa Bay,they would occupy the mountains opposite Santiago and shell theSpanish fleet; the authorities at Washington had at last consentedto allow Sampson to run the forts and mines, and attack the Spanishfleet; the army had not been fed for two days, the Spaniards hadcut it off from its base at Siboney; the army would eat its Fourthof July dinner in the Governor's Palace; the army was in fullretreat; the army was to attack at daybreak.
When Channing turned in under the fruit-shed on the night ofJuly 2d, there was but one press-boat remaining in the harbor. Thatwas the Consolidated Press boat, and Keating himself was on thewharf, signalling for his dingy. Channing sprang to his feet andran toward him, calling him by name. The thought that he must foranother day remain so near the march of great events and yet notsee and feel them for himself, was intolerable. He felt if it wouldpay his passage to the coast of Cuba, there was no sacrifice towhich he would not stoop. Keating watched him approach, but withoutsign of recognition. His eyes were heavy and bloodshot.
"Keating," Channing begged, as he halted, panting, "won't youtake me with you? I'll not be in the way, and I'll stoke or wait ontable, or anything you want, if you'll only take me."
Keating's eyes opened and closed, sleepily. He removed an unlitcigar from his mouth and shook the wet end of it at Channing, asthough it were an accusing finger.
"I know your game," he murmured, thickly. "You haven't got aboat and you want to steal a ride on mine—for your paper. Youcan't do it, you see, you can't do it."
One of the crew of the dingy climbed up the gangway of the wharfand took Keating by the elbow. He looked at him and then atChanning and winked. He was apparently accustomed to thiscomplication. "I haven't got a paper, Keating," Channing argued,soothingly. "Who have you got to help you?" he asked. It came tohim that there might be on the boat some Philip sober, to whom hecould appeal from Philip drunk.
"I haven't got anyone to help me," Keating answered, withdignity. "I don't need anyone to help me." He placed his handheavily and familiarly on the shoulder of the deck-hand. "You seethat man?" he asked. "You see tha' man, do you? Well, tha' man he'stoo good for me an' you. Tha' man—used to be the bestreporter in New York City, an' he was too good to hustle for news,an' now he's—now he can't get a job—see? Nobody'll havehim, see? He's got to come and be a stoker."
He stamped his foot with indignation.
"You come an' be a stoker," he commanded. "How long you thinkI'm going to wait for a stoker? You stoker, come on board and be astoker."
Channing smiled, guiltily, at his good fortune, He jumped intothe bow of the dingy, and Keating fell heavily in the stern.
The captain of the press-boat helped Keating safely to a bunk inthe cabin and received his instructions to proceed to SantiagoHarbor. Then he joined Channing. "Mr. Keating is feeling badto-night. That bombardment off Morro," he explained, tactfully,"was too exciting. We always let him sleep going across, and whenwe get there he's fresh as a daisy. What's this he tells me of yourdoing stoking?"
"I thought there might be another fight tomorrow, so I said I'dcome as a stoker."
The captain grinned.
"Our Sam, that deck-hand, was telling me. He said Mr. Keatingput it on you, sort of to spite you—is that so?"
"Oh, I wanted to come," said Channing.
The captain laughed, comprehendingly. "I guess we'll be in a badway," he said, "when we need you in the engine-room." He settledhimself for conversation, with his feet against the rail and histhumbs in his suspenders. The lamps of Port Antonio were sinkinginto the water, the moonlight was flooding the deck.
"That was quite something of a bombardment Sampson put upagainst Morro Castle this morning," he began, critically. He spokeof bombardments from the full experience of a man who had seenshells strike off Coney Island from the proving-grounds at SandyHook. But Channing heard him, eagerly. He begged thetugboat-captain to tell him what it looked like, and as the captaintold him he filled it in and saw it as it really was.
"Perhaps they'll bombard again to-morrow," he hazarded,hopefully.
"We can't tell till we see how they're placed on the station,"the captain answered. "If there's any firing we ought to hear itabout eight o'clock to-morrow morning. We'll hear 'em before we see'em."
Channing's conscience began to tweak him. It was time, hethought, that Keating should be aroused and brought up to thereviving air of the sea, but when he reached the foot of thecompanion-ladder, he found that Keating was already awake and inthe act of drawing the cork from a bottle. His irritation againstChanning had evaporated and he greeted him with sleepygood-humor.
"Why, it's ol' Charlie Channing," he exclaimed, drowsily.Channing advanced upon him swiftly.
"Here, you've had enough of that!" he commanded. "We'll be offMorro by breakfast-time. You don't want that."
Keating, giggling foolishly, pushed him from him and retreatedwith the bottle toward his berth. He lurched into it, rolled overwith his face to the ship's side, and began breathing heavily.
"You leave me 'lone," he murmured, from the darkness of thebunk. "You mind your own business, you leave me 'lone."
Channing returned to the bow and placed the situation before thecaptain. That gentleman did not hesitate. He disappeared down thecompanion-way, and, when an instant later he returned, hurled abottle over the ship's side.
The next morning when Channing came on deck the land was just insight, a rampart of dark green mountains rising in heavy massesagainst the bright, glaring blue of the sky. He strained his eyesfor the first sight of the ships, and his ears for the faintestechoes of distant firing, but there was no sound save the swiftrush of the waters at the bow. The sea lay smooth and flat beforehim, the sun flashed upon it; the calm and hush of early morninghung over the whole coast of Cuba.
An hour later the captain came forward and stood at hiselbow.
"How's Keating?" Channing asked. "I tried to wake him, but Icouldn't."
The captain kept his binoculars to his eyes, and shut his lipsgrimly. "Mr. Keating's very bad," he said. "He had another bottlehidden somewhere, and all last night—" he broke off with arelieved sigh. "It's lucky for him," he added, lowering theglasses, "that there'll be no fight to-day."
Channing gave a gasp of disappointment. "What do you mean?" heprotested.
"You can look for yourself," said the captain, handing him theglasses. "They're at their same old stations. There'll be nobombardment to-day. That's the Iowa, nearest us, the Oregon's tostarboard of her, and the next is the Indiana. That little fellowclose under the land is the Gloucester."
He glanced up at the mast to see that the press-boat's signalwas conspicuous, they were drawing within range.
With the naked eye, Channing could see the monster,mouse-colored war-ships, basking in the sun, solemn and motionlessin a great crescent, with its one horn resting off theharbor-mouth. They made great blots on the sparkling, glancingsurface of the water. Above each superstructure, theirfighting-tops, giant davits, funnels, and gibbet-like yards twistedinto the air, fantastic and incomprehensible, but the bulk belowseemed to rest solidly on the bottom of the ocean, like an islandof lead. The muzzles of their guns peered from the turrets as fromramparts of rock.
Channing gave a sigh of admiration.
"Don't tell me they move," he said. "They're not ships, they'refortresses!"
On the shore there was no sign of human life nor of humanhabitation. Except for the Spanish flag floating over the streakedwalls of Morro, and the tiny blockhouse on every mountain-top, thesquadron might have been anchored off a deserted coast. The hillsrose from the water's edge like a wall, their peaks green andglaring in the sun, their valleys dark with shadows. Nothing movedupon the white beach at their feet, no smoke rose from theirridges, not even a palm stirred. The great range slept in a bluehaze of heat. But only a few miles distant, masked by its frowningfront, lay a gayly colored, red-roofed city, besieged by encirclingregiments, a broad bay holding a squadron of great war-ships, andgliding cat-like through its choked undergrowth and crouched amongthe fronds of its motionless palms were the ragged patriots of theCuban army, silent, watchful, waiting. But the great range gave nosign. It frowned in the sunlight, grim and impenetrable.
"It's Sunday," exclaimed the captain. He pointed with his fingerat the decks of the battleships, where hundreds of snow-whitefigures had gone to quarters. "It's church service," he said, "orit's general inspection."
Channing looked at his watch. It was thirty minutes past nine."It's church service," he said. "I can see them carrying out thechaplain's reading-desk on the Indiana." The press-boat pushed herway nearer into the circle of battleships until their leaden-huedhulls towered high above her. On the deck of each, the ship'scompany stood, ranged in motionless ranks. The calm of a Sabbathmorning hung about them, the sun fell upon them like a benediction,and so still was the air that those on the press-boat could hear,from the stripped and naked decks, the voices of the men answeringthe roll-call in rising monotone, "one, two, three, FOUR; one, two,three, FOUR." The white- clad sailors might have been a chorus ofsurpliced choir-boys.
But, up above them, the battle-flags, slumbering at themast-heads, stirred restlessly and whimpered in their sleep.
Out through the crack in the wall of mountains, where the searuns in to meet the waters of Santiago Harbor, and from behind theshield of Morro Castle, a great, gray ship, like a great, gray rat,stuck out her nose and peered about her, and then struck boldly forthe open sea. High before her she bore the gold and blood-red flagof Spain, and, like a fugitive leaping from behind hisprison-walls, she raced forward for her freedom, to give battle, tomeet her death.
A shell from the Iowa shrieked its warning in a shrillcrescendo, a flutter of flags painted their message against thesky. "The enemy's ships are coming out," they signalled, and theranks of white-clad figures which the moment before stoodmotionless on the decks, broke into thousands of separate beingswho flung themselves, panting, down the hatchways, or sprang,cheering, to the fighting-tops.
Heavily, but swiftly, as islands slip into the water when avolcano shakes the ocean-bed, the great battle-ships buried theirbows in the sea, their sides ripped apart with flame and smoke, thethunder of their guns roared and beat against the mountains, and,from the shore, the Spanish forts roared back at them, until theair between was split and riven. The Spanish war-ships were alreadyscudding clouds of smoke, pierced with flashes of red flame, and asthey fled, fighting, their batteries rattled with unceasing,feverish fury. But the guns of the American ships, straining inpursuit, answered steadily, carefully, with relentless accuracy,with cruel persistence. At regular intervals they boomed above thehurricane of sound, like great bells tolling for the dead.
It seemed to Channing that he had lived through many years; thatthe strain of the spectacle would leave its mark upon his nervesforever. He had been buffeted and beaten by a storm of all thegreat emotions; pride of race and country, pity for the dead, agonyfor the dying, who clung to blistering armor-plates, or sank tosuffocation in the sea; the lust of the hunter, when the huntedthing is a fellow-man; the joys of danger and of excitement, whenthe shells lashed the waves about him, and the triumph of victory,final, overwhelming and complete.
Four of the enemy's squadron had struck their colors, two wereon the beach, broken and burning, two had sunk to the bottom of thesea, two were in abject flight. Three battle-ships were hammeringthem with thirteen-inch guns. The battle was won.
"It's all over," Channing said. His tone questioned his ownwords.
The captain of the tugboat was staring at the face of his silverwatch, as though it were a thing bewitched. He was pale andpanting. He looked at Channing, piteously, as though he doubted hisown senses, and turned the face of the watch toward him.
"Twenty minutes!" Channing said. "Good God! Twenty minutes!"
He had been to hell and back again in twenty minutes. He hadseen an empire, which had begun with Christopher Columbus and whichhad spread over two continents, wiped off the map in twentyminutes. The captain gave a sudden cry of concern. "Mr. Keating,"he gasped. "Oh, Lord, but I forgot Mr. Keating. Where is Mr.Keating?"
"I went below twice," Channing answered. "He's insensible. Seewhat you can do with him, but first—take me to the Iowa. TheConsolidated Press will want the 'facts.'"
In the dark cabin the captain found Keating on the floor, whereChanning had dragged him, and dripping with the water whichChanning had thrown in his face. He was breathing heavily,comfortably. He was not concerned with battles.
With a megaphone, Channing gathered his facts from an officer ofthe Iowa, who looked like a chimney-sweep, and who was surroundedby a crew of half-naked pirates, with bodies streaked with sweatand powder.
Then he ordered all steam for Port Antonio, and, going forwardto the chart-room, seated himself at the captain's desk, and,pushing the captain's charts to the floor, spread out his elbows,and began to write the story of his life.
In the joy of creating it, he was lost to all about him. He didnot know that the engines, driven to the breaking-point, werefilling the ship with their groans and protests, that the deckbeneath his feet was quivering like the floor of a planing-mill,nor that his fever was rising again, and feeding on his veins. Theturmoil of leaping engines and of throbbing pulses was confusedwith the story he was writing, and while his mind was inflamed withpictures of warring battle-ships, his body was swept by the fever,which overran him like an army of tiny mice, touching his hot skinwith cold, tingling taps of their scampering feet.
From time to time the captain stopped at the door of thechart-room and observed him in silent admiration. To the man whowith difficulty composed a letter to his family, the fact thatChanning was writing something to be read by millions of people,and more rapidly than he could have spoken the same words, seemed asuperhuman effort. He even hesitated to interrupt it by an offer offood.
But the fever would not let Channing taste of the food when theyplaced it at his elbow, and even as he pushed it away, his mind wasstill fixed upon the paragraph before him. He wrote, sprawlingacross the desk, covering page upon page with giant hieroglyphics,lighting cigarette after cigarette at the end of the last one, butwith his thoughts far away, and, as he performed the act, staringuncomprehendingly at the captain's colored calendar pinned on thewall before him. For many months later the Battle of Santiago wasassociated in his mind with a calendar for the month of July,illuminated by a colored picture of six white kittens in abasket.
At three o'clock Channing ceased writing and stood up, shiveringand shaking with a violent chill. He cursed himself for thisweakness, and called aloud for the captain.
"I can't stop now," he cried. He seized the rough fist of thecaptain as a child clings to the hand of his nurse.
"Give me something," he begged. "Medicine, quinine, give mesomething to keep my head straight until it's finished. Go, quick,"he commanded. His teeth were chattering, and his body jerked withsharp, uncontrollable shudders. The captain ran, muttering, to hismedicine- chest.
"We've got one drunken man on board," he said to the mate, "andnow we've got a crazy one. You mark my words, he'll go off his headat sunset."
But at sunset Channing called to him and addressed him sanely.He held in his hand a mass of papers carefully numbered andarranged, and he gave them up to the captain as though it hurt himto part with them.
"There's the story," he said. "You've got to do the rest. Ican't—I- -I'm going to be very ill." He was swaying as hespoke. His eyes burned with the fever, and his eyelids closed ofthemselves. He looked as though he had been heavily drugged.
"You put that on the wire at Port Antonio," he commanded,faintly; "pay the tolls to Kingston. From there they are to send itby way of Panama, you understand, by the Panama wire."
"Panama!" gasped the captain. "Good Lord, that's two dollars aword." He shook out the pages in his hand until he found the lastone. "And there's sixty-eight pages here," he expostulated. "Whythe tolls will be five thousand dollars!" Channing dropped feeblyto the bench of the chart-room and fell in a heap, shivering andtrembling.
"I guess it's worth it," he murmured, drowsily.
The captain was still staring at the last page.
"But—but, look here," he cried, "you've—you'vesigned Mr. Keating's name to it! 'James R. Keating.' You've signedhis name to it!"
Channing raised his head from his folded arms and stared at himdully.
"You don't want to get Keating in trouble, do you?" he askedwith patience. "You don't want the C. P. to know why he couldn'twrite the best story of the war? Do you want him to lose his job?Of course you don't. Well, then, let it go as his story. I won'ttell, and see you don't tell, and Keating won't remember."
His head sank back again upon his crossed arms. "It's not a badstory," he murmured.
But the captain shook his head; his loyalty to his employer wasstill uppermost. "It doesn't seem right!" he protested. "It's asort of a liberty, isn't it, signing another man's name to it, it'sa sort of forgery."
Channing made no answer. His eyes were shut and he was shiveringviolently, hugging himself in his arms.
A quarter of an hour later, when the captain returned with freshquinine, Channing sat upright and saluted him.
"Your information, sir," he said, addressing the open doorpolitely, "is of the greatest value. Tell the executive officer toproceed under full steam to Panama. He will first fire a shotacross her bows, and then sink her!" He sprang upright and stoodfor a moment, sustained by the false strength of the fever. "ToPanama, you hear me!" he shouted. He beat the floor with his foot."Faster, faster, faster," he cried. "We've got a great story! Wewant a clear wire, we want the wire clear from Panama to City Hall.It's the greatest story ever written—full of facts, facts,facts, facts for the Consolidated Press—and Keating wrote it.I tell you, Keating wrote it. I saw him write it. I was a stoker onthe same ship."
The mate and crew came running forward and stood gaping stupidlythrough the doors and windows of the chart-room. Channing welcomedthem joyously, and then crumpled up in a heap and pitched forwardinto the arms of the captain. His head swung weakly from shoulderto shoulder.
"I beg your pardon," he muttered, "I beg your pardon, captain,but your engine-room is too hot. I'm only a stoker and I know myplace, sir, but I tell you, your engine-room is too hot. It's aburning hell, sir, it's a hell!"
The captain nodded to the crew and they closed in on him, andbore him, struggling feebly, to a bunk in the cabin below. In theberth opposite, Keating was snoring peacefully.
After the six weeks' siege the Fruit Company's doctor toldChanning he was cured, and that he might walk abroad. In this firstwalk he found that, during his illness, Port Antonio had revertedto her original condition of complete isolation from the world, thepress- boats had left her wharves, the correspondents had departedfrom the veranda of her only hotel, the war was over, and the PeaceCommissioners had sailed for Paris. Channing expressed his greatgratitude to the people of the hotel and to the Fruit Company'sdoctor. He made it clear to them that if they ever hoped to be paidthose lesser debts than that of gratitude which he still owed them,they must return him to New York and Newspaper Row. It was eitherthat, he said, or, if they preferred, he would remain and work outhis indebtedness, checking bunches of bananas at twenty dollars amonth. The Fruit Company decided it would be paid more quickly ifChanning worked at his own trade, and accordingly sent him North inone of its steamers. She landed him in Boston, and he borrowed fivedollars from the chief engineer to pay his way to New York.
It was late in the evening of the same day when he stepped outof the smoking-car into the roar and riot of the Grand CentralStation. He had no baggage to detain him, and, as he had no moneyeither, he made his way to an Italian restaurant where he knew theywould trust him to pay later for what he ate. It was a place wherethe newspaper men were accustomed to meet, men who knew him, andwho, until he found work, would lend him money to buy a bath, cleanclothes, and a hall bedroom.
Norris, the World man, greeted him as he entered the door of therestaurant, and hailed him with a cry of mingled fright andpleasure.
"Why, we didn't know but you were dead," he exclaimed. "The boyssaid when they left Kingston you weren't expected to live. Did youever get the money and things we sent you by the Red Crossboat?"
Channing glanced at himself and laughed.
"Do I look it?" he asked. He was wearing the same clothes inwhich he had slept under the fruit-sheds at Port Antonio. They hadbeen soaked and stained by the night-dews and by the sweat of thefever.
"Well, it's great luck, your turning up here just now," Norrisassured him, heartily. "That is, if you're as hungry as the rest ofthe boys are who have had the fever. You struck it just right;we're giving a big dinner here to-night," he explained, "one ofMaria's best. You come in with me. It's a celebration for oldKeating, a farewell blow-out."
Channing started and laughed.
"Keating?" he asked. "That's funny," he said. "I haven't seenhim since—since before I was ill."
"Yes, old Jimmie Keating. You've got nothing against him, haveyou?"
Channing shook his head vehemently, and Norris glanced backcomplacently toward the door of the dining-room, from whence camethe sound of intimate revelry.
"You might have had, once," Norris said, laughing; "we were allup against him once. But since he's turned out such a wonder and awar- hero, we're going to recognize it. They're always saying wenewspaper men have it in for each other, and so we're just givinghim this subscription-dinner to show it's not so. He's goingabroad, you know. He sails to-morrow morning."
"No, I didn't know," said Channing.
"Of course not, how could you? Well, the Consolidated Press'ssending him and his wife to Paris. He's to cover the Peacenegotiations there. It's really a honeymoon-trip at the expense ofthe C. P. It's their reward for his work, for his Santiago story,and the beat and all that—"
Channing's face expressed his bewilderment.
Norris drew back dramatically.
"Don't tell me," he exclaimed, "that you haven't heard aboutthat!"
Channing laughed a short, frightened laugh, and moved nearer tothe street.
"No," he said. "No, I hadn't."
"Yes, but, good Lord! it was the story of the war. You neverread such a story! And he got it through by Panama a day ahead ofall the other stories! And nobody read them, anyway. Why, CaptainMahan said it was 'naval history,' and the Evening Post had aneditorial on it, and said it was 'the only piece of literature thewar has produced.' We never thought Keating had it in him, did you?The Consolidated Press people felt so good over it that they'vepromised, when he comes back from Paris, they'll make him theirWashington correspondent. He's their 'star' reporter now. It justshows you that the occasion produces the man. Come on in, and havea drink with him."
Channing pulled his arm away, and threw a frightened look towardthe open door of the dining-room. Through the layers oftobacco-smoke he saw Keating seated at the head of a long, crowdedtable, smiling, clear-eyed, and alert.
"Oh, no, I couldn't," he said, with sudden panic. "I can'tdrink; doctor won't let me. I wasn't coming in, I was just passingwhen I saw you. Good-night, I'm much obliged. Good-night."
But the hospitable Norris would not be denied.
"Oh, come in and say 'good-by' to him, anyhow," he insisted."You needn't stay."
"No, I can't," Channing protested. "I—they'd make me drinkor eat and the doctor says I can't. You mustn't tempt me. You say'good-by' to him for me," he urged. "And Norris—tellhim—tell him—that I asked you to say to him, 'It's allright,' that's all, just that, 'It's all right.' He'llunderstand."
There was the sound of men's feet scraping on the floor, and ofchairs being moved from their places.
Norris started away eagerly. "I guess they're drinking hishealth," he said. "I must go. I'll tell him what you said, 'It'sall right.' That's enough, is it? There's nothing more?"
Channing shook his head, and moved away from the only placewhere he was sure to find food and a welcome that night.
"There's nothing more," he said.
As he stepped from the door and stood irresolutely in thetwilight of the street, he heard the voices of the men who hadgathered in Keating's honor upraised in a joyous chorus.
"For he's a jolly good fellow," they sang, "for he's a jollygood fellow, which nobody can deny!"
When Bardini, who led the Hungarian Band at the SavoyRestaurant, was promoted to play at the Casino at Trouville, hisplace was taken by the second violin. The second violin was a boy,and when he greeted his brother Tziganes and the habitues of therestaurant with an apologetic and deprecatory bow, he showed thathe was fully conscious of the inadequacy of his years. The maitred'hotel glided from table to table, busying himself inexplanations.
"The boy's name is Edouard; he comes from Budapest," he said."The season is too late to make it worth the while of themanagement to engage a new chef d'orchestre. So this boy will play.He plays very good, but he is not like Bardini."
He was not in the least like Bardini. In appearance, Bardinisuggested a Roumanian gypsy or a Portuguese sailor; his skin wasdeeply tanned, his hair was plastered on his low forehead in thick,oily curls, and his body, through much rich living on the scrapsthat fell from the tables of Girot's and the Casino des Fleurs, wasstout and gross. He was the typical leader of an orchestracondemned to entertain a noisy restaurant. His school of music wasthe school of Maxim's. To his skill with the violin he had addedthe arts of the head waiter, and he and the cook ran a race forpopularity, he pampering to one taste, and the cook, with hissauces, pampering to another. When so commanded, his pride as anartist did not prevent him from breaking off in the middle ofSchubert's Serenade to play Daisy Bell, nor was he above breakingit off on his own accord to salute the American patron, as heentered with the Belle of New York, or any one of the Gaiety Girls,hurrying in late for supper, with the Soldiers in the Park. When hewalked slowly through the restaurant, pausing at each table, hiseyes, even while they ogled the women to whom he played, followedthe brother Tzigane—who was passing the plate—and notedwhich of the patrons gave silver and which gave gold.
Edouard, the second violin, was all that Bardini was not,consequently he was entirely unsuited to lead an orchestra in arestaurant. Indeed, so little did he understand of what wasrequired of him that on the only occasion when Bardini sent him topass the plate he was so unsophisticated as not to hide thesixpences and shillings under the napkin, and so leave only thehalf-crowns and gold pieces exposed. And, instead of smilingmockingly at those who gave the sixpences, and waiting for them togive more, he even looked grateful, and at the same time deeplyashamed. He differed from Bardini also in that he was very thin andtall, with the serious, smooth-shaven face of a priest. Except forhis fantastic costume, there was nothing about him to recall theposes of the musician: his hair was neither long nor curly; it laystraight across his forehead and flat on either side, and when heplayed, his eyes neither sought out the admiring auditor norinvited his applause. On the contrary, they looked steadfastlyahead. It was as though they belonged to someone apart, who waslistening intently to the music. But in the waits between thenumbers the boy's eyes turned from table to table, observing thepeople in his audience. He knew nearly all of them by sight: thehead waiters who brought him their "commands," and hisbrother-musicians, had often discussed them in his hearing. Theyrepresented every city of the world, every part of the socialedifice: there were those who came to look at the spectacle, andthose who came to be looked at; those who gave a dinner for thesake of the diners, those who dined for the dinner alone. To somethe restaurant was a club; others ventured in counting the cost,taking it seriously, even considering that it conferred upon themsome social distinction. There were pretty women in paint andspangles, with conscious, half-grown boys just up from Oxford;company- promoters dining and wining possible subscribers or"guinea-pigs" into an acquiescent state; Guardsmen giving a dinnerof farewell to brother-officers departing for the Soudan or theCape; wide-eyed Americans just off the steamer in high dresses,great ladies in low dresses and lofty tiaras, and ladies of thestage, utterly unconscious of the boon they were conferring on thepeople about them, who, an hour before, had paid ten shillings tolook at them from the stalls.
Edouard, as he sat with his violin on his knee, his fingersfretting the silent strings, observed them all without envy andwithout interest. Had he been able to choose, it would not havebeen to such a well-dressed mob as this that he would have givenhis music. For at times a burst of laughter killed a phrase thatwas sacred to him, and sometimes the murmur of the voices and theclatter of the waiters would drown him out altogether. But theartist in him forced him to play all things well, and for his owncomfort he would assure himself that no doubt somewhere in the roomsomeone was listening, someone who thought more of the strange,elusive melodies of the Hungarian folksongs than of the chefsentrees, and that for this unknown one he must be true to himselfand true to his work. Covertly, he would seek out some face towhich he could make the violin speak—not openly andimpertinently, as did Bardini, but secretly and for sympathy, sothat only one could understand. It pleased young Edouard to seesuch a one raise her head as though she had heard her name spoken,and hold it poised to listen, and turn slowly in her chair, socompletely engaged that she forgot the man at her elbow, and thefood before her was taken away untouched. It delighted him to thinkthat she knew that the music was speaking to her alone. But hewould not have had her think that the musician spoke, too—itwas the soul of the music, not his soul, that was reaching out tothe pretty stranger. When his soul spoke through the music it wouldnot be, so he assured himself, to such chatterers as gathered onthe terrace of the Savoy Restaurant.
Mrs. Warriner and her daughter were on their way home, or to oneof their homes; this one was up the Hills of Lenox. They had beenin Egypt and up the Nile, and for the last two months had beenslowly working their way north through Greece and Italy. They werein London, at the Savoy, waiting for their sailing-day, and on thenight of their arrival young Corbin was giving them a dinner. Forthree months Mrs. Warriner and himself had alternated in givingeach other dinners in every part of Southern Europe, and the gloomwhich hung over this one was not due to the fact that the dinershad become wearied of one another's society, but that theopportunities still left to them for this exchange of hospitalitywere almost at an end. That night, for the hundredth time, youngCorbin had decided it would have been much better for him if theyhad come to an end many weeks previous, for the part he played inthe trio was a difficult one. It was that of the lover who will nottake "no" for an answer. The lover who will take no, and goes onhis way disconsolate, may live to love another day, and everyone iscontent; but the one who will not have no, who will not hear of it,nor consider it, has much to answer for in making life a burden tohimself and all around him.
When Corbin joined the Warriners on their trip up the Nile itwas considered by all of them, in their ignorance, a happyaccident. Other mothers, more worldly than Mrs. Warriner, withdaughters less attractive, gave her undeserved credit for havinglured into her party one of the young men of Boston who was most tobe desired as a son-in-law. But the mind of Mrs. Warriner, so faras Mr. Corbin was concerned, was quite free from any suchconsideration; so was the mind of the young bachelor; certainlyMiss Warriner held no tender thoughts concerning him. The familiesof the Warriners and the Corbins had been friends ever since thecowpath crossed the Common. Before Corbin entered Harvard MissWarriner and he had belonged to the same dancing-class. Later shehad danced with him at four class- days, and many times between.When he graduated, she had gone abroad with her mother, and he hadjoined the Somerset Club, and played polo at Pride's Crossing, andtalked vaguely of becoming a lawyer, and of re-entering Harvard bythe door of the Law School, chiefly, it was supposed, that he mighthave another year of the football team. He was very young inspirit, very big and athletic, very rich, and without a care orserious thought. Miss Warriner was to him, then, no more than afriend; to her he was a boy, one of many nice, cultivated Harvardboys, who occasionally called upon her and talked football. On theface of things, she was not the sort of girl he should have loved.But for some saving clause in him, he should have loved and marriedone of the many other girls who had belonged to the samedancing-class, who would have been known as "Mrs. Tom" Corbin, whowould have been sought after as a chaperone, and who would havestood up in her cart when he played polo and shouted at him acrossthe field to "ride him off."
Miss Warriner, on the contrary, was much older than he ineverything but years, and was conscious of the fact. She was aserious, self- centred young person, and satisfied with her ownthoughts, unless her companion gave her better ones. She concernedherself with the character and ideas of her friends. If a young manlacked ideas, the fact that he possessed wealth and good mannerscould not save him. If these attributes had been pointed out to heras part of his assets she would have been surprised. She was notimpressed with her own good looks and fortune—she took themfor granted; so why should they count with her in other people?
Miss Warriner made an error of analysis in regard to Mr. Corbinin judging his brain by his topics of conversation. Hisconversation was limited to the A B C's of life, with which, up tothe time of his meeting her, his brain had been fed. When, however,she began to cram it full with all the other letters of thealphabet, it showed itself just as capable of digesting theeconomic conditions of Egypt as it had previously succeeded inmastering the chess-like problems of the game of football.
Young Corbin had not considered the Home Beautiful, norMunicipal Government, nor How the Other Half Lives as topics thatwere worth his while; but when Miss Warriner showed her interest inthem, her doing so made them worth his while, and he fell upon themgreedily. He even went much further than she had gone, and was notcontent merely to theorize and to discuss social questions from thesafe distance of the deck of a dahabiyeh on the Nile, but proposedto at once put her theories into practice. To this end he offeredher a house in the slums of Boston, rent free, where she couldstart her College Settlement. He made out lists of the men hethought would like to teach there, and he volunteered to pay theexpenses of the experiment until it failed or succeeded. When herinterest changed to the Tombs of the Rameses, and the succession ofthe ancient dynasties, he spent hours studying his Baedeker that hemight keep in step with her; and when she abandoned ancient formodern Egypt and became deeply charmed with the intricacies of thedual control and of the Mixed Courts, he interviewed subalterns,Pashas, and missionaries in a gallant effort to comprehend thesocial and political difficulties of the white men who had occupiedthe land of the Sphinx, who had funded her debt, irrigated herdeserts, and "made a mummy fight."
One night, as the dahabiyeh lay moored beneath a group of palmsin the moonlight, Miss Warriner gave him praise for offering herthe house in the slums for her experiment. He assured her that hewas entirely selfish—that he did so because he believed hersettlement would be a benefit to the neighborhood, in which heowned some property. When she then accused him of giving sordidreasons for what was his genuine philanthropy he told her flatlythat he neither cared for the higher education of the slums nor theincreased value of his rents, but for her, and to please her, andthat he loved her and would love her always. In answer to this,Miss Warriner told him gently but firmly that she could not lovehim, but that she liked him and admired him, even though she wasdisappointed to find that his sudden interest in matters moreserious than polo had been assumed to please her. She added thatshe would always be his friend. This, she thought, ended thematter; it was unfortunate that they should be shipbound on theNile; but she trusted to his tact and good sense to save them bothfrom embarrassment. She was not prepared, however, to see him comeon deck very late the next morning, after, apparently, a longsleep, as keen, as cheerful, and as smiling as he had been beforethe blow had fallen. It piqued her a little, and partly because ofthat, and partly because she really was relieved to find him insuch a humor, she congratulated him on his most evidenthappiness.
"Why not?" he asked, suddenly growing sober. "I love you. Thatis enough to make any man happy, isn't it? You needn't love me, butyou can't prevent my going on loving you."
"Well, I am very sorry," she sighed in much perplexity.
"You needn't be," he answered, reassuringly. "I'm more sorry foryou than I am for myself. You are going to have a terrible timeuntil you marry me."
They were at Thebes, and he went off that afternoon to theTemple of Luxor with her mother, and made violent use of the sacredaltars, the beauty of Cleopatra, the eternity of the scarabea, andthe indestructibility of the Pyramids to suggest faintly to Mrs.Warriner how much he loved her daughter. He shook his hand at thecrouching sphinxes and said:
"Mrs. Warriner, in forty centuries they have never looked downupon a man as proud as I am, and I am told they have seen Napoleon;but I need help; she won't help me, so you must. It's no usearguing against me. When this Nile dries up I shall have ceasedloving your daughter!"
"Did you tell Helen what you have told me? Did you talk to herso?" asked Mrs. Warriner.
"No, not last night," said Corbin; "but I will, in time, aftershe gets more used to the Idea."
Unfortunately for the peace of Mr. Corbin and all concerned.Miss Warriner did not become reconciled to the idea. On thecontrary, she resented it greatly. She had looked at thepossibility of something to be carried out later—much later,perhaps not at all. It did not seem possible that before she hadreally begun to enjoy life it should be subjected to such a change.She saw that it was obviously the thing that should happen. If thematch had been arranged by the entire city of Boston it could nothave been more obvious. But she argued with him that marriage was amutual self-sacrifice, and that until she felt ready to make hershare of the sacrifice it was impossible for her to consent.
He combated her arguments, which he refused to consider asarguments, and demolished them one by one. But the objection whichhe destroyed before he went to sleep at night was replaced the nextday by another, and his cause never advanced. Each day he found thecitadel he was besieging girt in by new and intricate defences. Thereason was simple enough: the girl was not in love with him. Herobjections, her arguments, her reasons were as absurd as he provedthem to be. But they were insurmountable because they were reallyvarious disguises of the fact that she did not care for him. Theywere disguises to herself as well as to him. He was so altogether agood fellow, so earnest, honest, and desperate a lover that theprimary fact that she did not want his love did not present itself,and she kept casting about in her mind for excuses and reasons toexplain her lack of feeling. He wooed her in every obvious way thatwould present itself to a boy of deep feeling, of quick mind, andan unlimited letter of credit. He created wants in order to gratifythem later. He suggested her need of things which he had alreadyordered, which, before she had been enticed into expressing a wishfor them, were then speeding across the Continent toward her. Everyhour brought her some fresh and ingenuous sign of his thought andof his devotion. He treated these tributes as a matter of course;if she failed to observe them and to see his handiwork in them helet them fall to the ground unnoticed.
His love itself was his argument-in-chief; it was its ownexcuse; it needed no allies; "I love you" was his first and lastword. It puzzled her to find that she could not care. When she wasalone she asked herself what there was in him of which shedisapproved, and she could only answer that there was nothing. Sheasked herself what other men there were who pleased her more, andshe could think of none. On the contrary, she found him entirelycharming as a friend— but his love distressed her greatly. Itwas a foreign language; she could not comprehend it. When heallowed it to appear it completely disguised him in her eyes; itannoyed her so much that at times she considered herself a muchill-used young person.
It was in this way that the matter stood between them when theirlong journey was ended and they reached London. He was miserable,desperate, and hopeless; the girl was firm in that she would notmarry him, and her mother, who respected both the depth of Corbin'sfeelings and her daughter's reticence, and who had watched thestruggle with a troubled heart, was only thankful that they were topart, and that it was at an end. Corbin had no idea where he wouldgo nor what he would do. He recognized that to cross the ocean withthem would only subject his love to fresh distress and humiliation,and he had determined to put as much space between him and MissWarriner as the surface of the globe permitted. The Philippinesseemed to offer a picturesque retreat for a broken life. He decidedhe would go there and enlist and have himself shot. He wasuncertain whether he would follow in the steps of his Revolutionaryancestors and join the men who were struggling for their libertyand independence, or his fellow-Americans; but that he would getshot by one side or the other he was determined. And then in daysto come she would think, perhaps, of the young man on the otherside of the globe, buried in the wet rice-fields, with the palmsfanning him through his eternal sleep, and she might be sorry thenthat she had not listened to his troubled heart. The picture gavehim some small comfort, and that night when he ordered dinner forthem at the Savoy his manner showed the inspired resolve of one whois soon to mount the scaffold unafraid, and with a rose between hislips.
Edouard, the first violin, saw Miss Warriner when she enteredand took her place facing him at one of the tables in the centre ofthe room. He was sitting with his violin on his knees, touching thestrings with his finger-tips. When he saw her he choked the neck ofthe violin with his hand, as though it had been the hand of afriend which he had grasped in a sudden ecstasy of delight. Theeffect her appearance had made upon him was so remarkable that heglanced quickly over his shoulder to see if he had betrayed himselfby some sign or gesture. But the other musicians were concernedwith their own gossip, and he felt free to turn again and fromunder his half- closed eyelids to observe her covertly.
There was nothing to explain why Miss Warriner, in particular,should have so disturbed him; the English women seated about herwere as fair; she showed no great sorrow in her face; her beautywas not of the type which carried observers by assault. And yet notone of the many beautiful women who on one night or another passedbefore Edouard in the soft light of the red shades had ever stirredhim so strangely, had ever depressed him with such a tendermelancholy, and filled his soul—the soul of a Hungarian and amusician—with such loneliness and unrest. He knew that, sofar as he was concerned, she was as distant as the Venus in theLouvre; she was, for him, a beautiful, unapproachable statue,placed, by some social convention, upon a pedestal.
As he looked at her he felt hotly the degradation of his sillyuniform, of the striped sash around his waist, the tawdry braids,and the tasselled boots. He felt as he had often felt before, butnow more keenly than ever, the prostitution of his art in thistemple of the senses, this home of epicures, where people met tofeast their eyes and charm their palates. He could not put hisfeelings into words, and he knew that if by some upheaval of thesocial world he should be thrown into her presence he would stillbe bound, he would not be able to speak or write what she inspiredin him. But—and at the thought he breathed quickly, andraised his shoulders with a touch of pride—he could tell herin his own way; after his own fashion he could express what he feltbetter even than those other men could tell what theyfeel—these men for whose amusement he performed nightly, towhom it was granted to sit at her side, who spoke the language ofher class and of her own people. Edouard was not given to analyzinghis emotions; like the music of his Tzigane ancestors, they came tohim sweeping every chord in his nature, beating rapidly to the timeof the Schardash, or with the fitfulness of the gypsy folksongssinking his spirits into melancholy. So he did not stop to questionwhy this one face so suddenly inspired him; he only knew that hefelt grateful, that he was impatient to pay his tribute ofadmiration, that he was glad he was an artist who could give hisfeelings voice.
In the long programme of selected airs he remembered that therewas one which would give him this chance to speak, in the playingof which he could put all his skill and all his soul, an air whichcarried with it infinite sadness and the touch of a caress. Theother numbers on the programme had been chosen to please thepatrons of a restaurant, this one, La Lettre d'Amour, was includedin the list for his own satisfaction. He had put it there to pleasehimself; to-night he would play it to please her—to thisunknown girl who had so suddenly awakened and inspired him.
As he waited for this chance to come he watched her, noting herevery movement, her troubled smile, her air of being apart andabove her surroundings. He noticed, too, the set face of the youngman at her side and, with the discernment of one whose own interestis captive, saw the half-concealed longing in his eyes. He felt aquick antipathy to this young man. His assured position at thegirl's side accentuated how far he himself was removed from her; heresented also the manner of the young man to the waiters, and hewondered hotly if, in the mind of this favored youth, the musicianwho played for his entertainment was regarded any more highly thanthe servant who received his orders. To this feeling of resentmentwas added one of contempt. For, as he read the tableau at the tablebelow him, the young man was the devotee of the young girl at hisside, and if one could judge from her averted eyes, from her silentassent to his questions, from the fact that she withdrew from thetalk between him and the older woman, his devotion was notwelcome.
This reading of the pantomime pleased Edouard greatly. Nothingcould have so crowned the feeling which the beauty of the strangerstirred in him as the thought that another loved her as well ashimself, and that the other, who started with all things in hisfavor, met with none from her.
Edouard assured himself that this was so because he had oftenheard his people boast that men not of their country could not feelas they could feel. If he had ever considered them at all it was ascold and conscious creatures who taught themselves to cover up whatthey felt, so that when their emotions strove to assert themselvesthey were found, through long disuse, to be dumb and inarticulate.Edouard rejoiced that to the men of his race it was given to feeland suffer much. He was sure that beneath the calmness of herbeauty this woman before him could feel deeply; he read in her eyesthe sympathy of a great soul; she made him think of a Madonna inthe church of St. Sophia at Budapest. He saw in her a woman whocould love greatly. When he considered how impossible it was forthe young man at her side ever to experience the great emotionswhich alone could reach her, his contempt for him rose almost topity. His violin, with his power to feel, and with his knowledge oftechnic added, could send his message as far as sound could carry.He could afford to be generous, and when he rose to play La Lettred'Amour it was with the elation of a knight entering the lists,with the ardor of a lover singing beneath his lady's window. LaLettre d'Amour is a composition written to a slow measure, andfilled with chords of exquisite pathos. It comes hesitatingly, likethe confession of a lover who loves so deeply that he halts to findwords with which to express his feelings. It moves in brokenphrases, each note rising in intensity and growing in beauty. It isnot a burst of passionate appeal, but a plea, tender, beseeching,and throbbing with melancholy. As he played, Edouard stepped downfrom the dais on which the musicians sat, and advanced slowlybetween the tables. It was late, and the majority of those who hadbeen dining had departed to the theatres. Those who remained werelingering over their coffee, and were smoking; their voices werelowered to a polite monotone; the rush of the waiters had ceased,and the previous chatter had sunk to a subdued murmur. Into this,the quivering sigh of Edouard's violin penetrated like a sunbeamfeeling its way into a darkened room, and, at the sound, thevoices, one by one, detached themselves from the general chorus,until, lacking support, it ceased altogether. Some were silent,that they might hear the better, others, who preferred their owntalk, were silent out of regard for those who desired to listen,and a waiter who was so indiscreet as to clatter a tray of glasseswas hushed on the instant. The tribute of attention lent to Edouardan added power; his head lifted on his shoulders with pride; hisbow cut deeper and firmer, and with more delicate shading; thenotes rose in thrilling, plaintive sadness, and flooded the hot airwith melody.
Edouard made his way to within a short distance of the table atwhich Miss Warriner was seated, and halted there as though he hadfound his audience. He did not look at her, although she satdirectly facing him, but it was evident to all that she was the oneto whom his effort was directed, and Corbin, who was seated withhis back to Edouard, recognized this and turned in his chair.
The body of the young musician was trembling with the feelingwhich found its outlet through the violin. He was in ecstasy overhis power and its accomplishment. The strings of the violinpulsated to the beating of his heart, and he felt that surely bynow the emotion which shook him must have reached the girl who hadgiven it life— and, for one swift second, his eyes soughthers. What he saw was the same beautiful face which had inspiredhim, but unmoved, cold, and unresponsive. As his eyes followed hersshe raised her head and looked, listlessly, around the room, andthen turned and glanced up at him with a careless and criticalscrutiny. If his music had been the music of an organ in thestreet, and he the man who raised his hat for coppers, she couldnot have been less moved. The discovery struck Edouard like a coldblast from an open door. His fingers faltered on the neck of hisviolin, his bow wavered, drunkenly, across the strings, and heturned away his eyes to shut out the vision of his failure, seekingrelief and sympathy. And, in their swift passage, they encounteredthose of Corbin looking up at him, his eyes aglow with wonder,feeling, and sorrow. They seemed to hold him to account; theybegged, they demanded of him not to break the spell, and, inresponse, the hot blood in the veins of the musician surged back,his pride flared up again, his eyes turned on Corbin's like thoseof a dog to his master's. Under their spell the music soared,trembling, paused and soared again, thrilling those who heard itwith its grief and tenderness.
Edouard's heart leaped with triumph. "The man knows," hewhispered to the violin; "he understands us. He knows."
The people, leaning with their elbows on the tables before them,the waiters listening with tolerant smiles, the musicians followingEdouard with anxious pride, saw only a young man with his armthrown heavily across the back of his chair, who was looking up atEdouard with a steady, searching gaze. But Edouard saw in him botha disciple and a master. He saw that this man was lifted up andcarried with him, that he understood the message of the music. Thenotes of the violin sank lower and lower, until they melted intothe silence of the room, and the people, freed of the spell themusic had put upon them, applauded generously. Edouard placed hisviolin under his arm, and with his eyes, which had never leftCorbin's face, still fastened upon his, bowed low to him, andCorbin raised his head and nodded gravely. It was as though theywere the only people in the room. As Edouard retreated his face wasshining with triumph, for he knew that the other had understoodhim, and that the other knew that he knew.
That night until he fell asleep, and all of the day following,the beautiful face of Miss Warriner troubled Edouard, and thethought of her alternately thrilled and depressed him. One momenthe mocked at himself for presuming to think that his simple artcould reach the depths of such a nature, and the next he stirredhimself to hope that he should see her once again, and that heshould succeed where he had failed.
The music had moved Corbin so deeply that when he awoke the dayfollowing the effect of it still hung upon him. It seemed to him asthough all he had been trying to tell Miss Warriner of his love forher, and which he had failed to make her understand in the lastthree months, had been expressed in the one moment of this song. Itwas that in it which had so enchanted him. It was as though he hadlistened to his own deepest and most sacred thoughts, uttered forthe first time convincingly, and by a stranger. Why was it, heasked himself, that this unknown youth could translate another'sfeelings into music, when he himself could not put them into words?He was walking in Piccadilly, deep in this thought, when a questioncame to him which caused him to turn rapidly into Green Park, wherehe could consider it undisturbed.
The doubt which had so suddenly presented itself was in somedegree the same one which had stirred Edouard. Was it that he wasreally unable to express his feelings, or was it that Miss Warrinercould not understand them? Was it really something lacking in him,or was it not something lacking in her? He flushed at thedisloyalty of the thought and put it from him; but, as his memoryreached back over the past three months, the question returnedagain and again with fresh force, and would not be denied. Hecalled himself a fatuous, conceited fool. Because he could not makea woman love him other men could do so. That was really the answer;he was not the man. But the answer did not seem final. What, afterall, was the thing his love sought—a woman only, or a womancapable of deep and great feeling? Even if he could not inspiresuch emotions, even if another could, he would still be content andproud to love a woman capable of such deep feelings. But if shewere without them? At the thought, Corbin stared blankly before himas though he had stumbled against a stone wall. What sign had sheever given him that she could care greatly? Was not any form ofemotion always distasteful to her? Was not her mind always occupiedwith abstract questions? Was she not always engaged in her ownself-improvement—with schemes, it is true, for bettering theworld; but did her heart ever ache once for the individual? Whatwas it, then, he loved? Something he imagined this girl to be, orwas he in love with the fact that his own nature had been somightily stirred? Was it not the joy of caring greatly which hadcarried him along? And if this was so, was he now to continue toproffer this devotion to one who could not feel, to a statue, to anidol? Were not the very things which rendered her beautiful theofferings which he himself had hung upon her altar? Did thequalities he really loved in her exist? Was he not on the brink ofcasting his love before one who could neither feel it for him norfor any other man? He stood up, trembling and frightened. Eventhough the girl had rejected him again and again, he felt a hatefulsense of disloyalty. He was ashamed to confess it to himself, andhe vowed, hotly, that he must be wrong, that he would not believe.He would still worship her, fight for her, and force her to carefor him.
Mrs. Warriner and her daughter were to sail on the morrow, andthat night they met Corbin at dinner for the last time. After manydays— although self-accused—he felt deeply conscious ofhis recent lack of faith, and, in the few hours still left him, hedetermined to atone for the temporary halt in his allegiance. Theyhad never found him more eager, tactful, and considerate than hewas that evening. The eyes of Mrs. Warriner softened as she watchedhim. As one day had succeeded another, her admiration and likingfor him had increased, until now she felt as though his cause washers—as though she was not parting from a friend, but from ason. But the calmness of her daughter was impenetrable; from hermanner it was impossible to learn whether the approachingseparation was a relief or a regret.
To Edouard the return of the beautiful girl to the restaurantappeared not as an accident, but as a marked favor vouchsafed tohim by Fate. He had been given a second chance. He read it as asign that he should take heart and hope. He felt that fortune wasindeed kind. He determined that he would play to her again, andthat this time he would not fail.
As the first notes of La Lettre d'Amour brought a pause ofsilence in the restaurant, Corbin, who was talking at the moment,interrupted himself abruptly, and turned in his chair.
All through the evening he had been conscious of the nearpresence of the young musician. He had not forgotten how, on thenight before, his own feelings had been interpreted in La Lettred'Amour, and for some time he had been debating in his mind as towhether he would request Edouard to play the air again, or let theevening pass without again submitting himself to so supreme anassault upon his feelings. Now the question had been settled forhim, and he found that it had been decided as he secretly desired.It was impossible to believe that Edouard was the same young manwho had played the same air on the night previous, for Edouard nolonger considered that he was present on sufferance—heinvited and challenged the attention of the room; his musiccommanded it to silence. It dominated all who heard it.
As he again slowly approached the table where Miss Warriner wasseated, the eyes of everyone were turned upon him; the pathos, thetenderness of his message seemed to speak to each; the fact that hedared to offer such a wealth of deep feeling to such an audiencewas in itself enough to engage the attention of all. A group ofGuardsmen, their faces flushed with Burgundy and pulling heavily onblack cigars, stared at him sleepily, and then sat up, erect andalert, watching him with intent, wide-open eyes; and at tableswhich had been marked by the laughter of those seated about themthere fell a sudden silence. Those who fully understood the valueof the music withdrew into themselves, submitting, thankfully, toits spell; others, less susceptible, gathered from the bearing ofthose about them that something of moment was going forward; but itwas recognized by each, from the most severe English matron presentdown to the youngest "omnibus-boy" among the waiters, that it was alove- story which was being told to them, and that in this publicplace the deepest, most sacred, and most beautiful of emotions werefinding noble utterance.
The music filled Corbin with desperate longing and regret. Itwas so truly the translation of his own feelings that he wasalternately touched with self-pity and inspired to fresh resolve.It seemed to assure him that love such as his could not endurewithout some return. It emboldened him to make still another and afinal appeal. Mrs. Warriner, with all the other people in the room,was watching Edouard, and so, unobserved, and hidden by the flowersupon the table, Corbin leaned toward Miss Warriner and bent hishead close to hers. His eyes were burning with feeling; his voicethrilled in unison to the plaint of the violin.
He gave a toss of his head in the direction from whence themusic came.
"That is what I have been trying to tell you," he whispered. Hisvoice was hoarse and shaken. "That is how I care, but that man'sgenius is telling you for me. At last, you must understand." In hiseagerness, his words followed each other brokenly and impetuously."That is love," he whispered. "That is the real voice of love inall its tenderness and might, and—it is love itself. Don'tyou understand it now?" he demanded.
Miss Warriner raised her head and frowned. She stared at Edouardwith a pained expression of perplexity and doubt.
"He shows no lack of feeling," she said, critically, "but histechnic is not equal to Ysaye's."
"Good God!" Corbin gasped. He sank away from Miss Warriner andstared at her with incredulous eyes.
"His technic," he repeated, "is not equal to Ysaye's?" He gave alaugh which might have been a sob, and sat up, suddenly, with hishead erect and his shoulders squared. He had the shaken look of onewho has recovered from a dangerous illness. But when he spoke againit was in the accents of every-day politeness.
At an early hour the following morning, Mrs. Warriner and herdaughter left Waterloo Station on the steamer-train forSouthampton, and Corbin attended them up to the moment of thetrain's departure. He concerned himself for their comfort asconscientiously as he had always done throughout the last threemonths, when he had been their travelling-companion; nothing couldhave been more friendly, more sympathetic, than his manner. Thiseffort, which Mrs. Warriner was sure cost him much, touched herdeeply. But when he shook Miss Warriner's hand and she said,"Good-by, and write to us before you go to the Philippines," Corbinfor the first time stammered in some embarrassment.
"Good-by," he said; "I—I am not sure that I shall go."
He dined at the Savoy again that night, in company with someEnglishmen. They sat at a table in the corner where they couldobserve the whole extent of the room, and their talk was eager andtheir laughter constant and hearty. It was only when the boy wholed the orchestra began to walk among the tables, playing an air ofpeculiar sadness, that Corbin's manner lost its vivacity, and hesank into a sudden silence, with his eyes fixed on the table beforehim.
"That's odd," said one of his companions. "I say, Corbin, lookat that chap! What's he doing?"
Corbin raised his eyes. He saw Edouard standing at the sametable at which for the last two nights Miss Warriner had beenseated. "What is it?" he asked.
"Why, that violin chap," said the Englishman. "Don't you see?He's been playing to the only vacant table in the room, and to anempty chair."
The Grill is the club most difficult of access in the world. Tobe placed on its rolls distinguishes the new member as greatly asthough he had received a vacant Garter or had been caricatured in"Vanity Fair."
Men who belong to the Grill Club never mention that fact. If youwere to ask one of them which clubs he frequents, he will name allsave that particular one. He is afraid if he told you he belongedto the Grill, that it would sound like boasting.
The Grill Club dates back to the days when Shakespeare's Theatrestood on the present site of the "Times" office. It has a goldenGrill which Charles the Second presented to the Club, and theoriginal manuscript of "Tom and Jerry in London," which wasbequeathed to it by Pierce Egan himself. The members, when theywrite letters at the Club, still use sand to blot the ink.
The Grill enjoys the distinction of having blackballed, withoutpolitical prejudice, a Prime Minister of each party. At the samesitting at which one of these fell, it elected, on account of hisbrogue and his bulls, Quiller, Q. C., who was then a pennilessbarrister.
When Paul Preval, the French artist who came to London by royalcommand to paint a portrait of the Prince of Wales, was made anhonorary member—only foreigners may be honorarymembers—he said, as he signed his first wine-card, "I wouldrather see my name on that than on a picture in the Louvre."
At which Quiller remarked, "That is a devil of a compliment,because the only men who can read their names in the Louvre to-dayhave been dead fifty years."
On the night after the great fog of 1897 there were five membersin the Club, four of them busy with supper and one reading in frontof the fireplace. There is only one room to the Club, and one longtable. At the far end of the room the fire of the grill glows red,and, when the fat falls, blazes into flame, and at the other thereis a broad bow-window of diamond panes, which looks down upon thestreet. The four men at the table were strangers to each other, butas they picked at the grilled bones, and sipped their Scotch andsoda, they conversed with such charming animation that a visitor tothe Club, which does not tolerate visitors, would have counted themas friends of long acquaintance, certainly not as Englishmen whohad met for the first time, and without the form of anintroduction. But it is the etiquette and tradition of the Grillthat whoever enters it must speak with whomever he finds there. Itis to enforce this rule that there is but one long table, andwhether there are twenty men at it or two, the waiters, supportingthe rule, will place them side by side.
For this reason the four strangers at supper were seatedtogether, with the candles grouped about them, and the long lengthof the table cutting a white path through the outer gloom.
"I repeat," said the gentleman with the black pearl stud, "thatthe days for romantic adventure and deeds of foolish daring havepassed, and that the fault lies with ourselves. Voyages to the poleI do not catalogue as adventures. That African explorer, youngChetney, who turned up yesterday after he was supposed to have diedin Uganda, did nothing adventurous. He made maps and explored thesources of rivers. He was in constant danger, but the presence ofdanger does not constitute adventure. Were that so, the chemist whostudies high explosives, or who investigates deadly poisons, passesthrough adventures daily. No, 'adventures are for the adventurous.'But one no longer ventures. The spirit of it has died of inertia.We are grown too practical, too just, above all, too sensible. Inthis room, for instance, members of this Club have, at the sword'spoint, disputed the proper scanning of one of Pope's couplets. Overso weighty a matter as spilled Burgundy on a gentleman's cuff, tenmen fought across this table, each with his rapier in one hand anda candle in the other. All ten were wounded. The question of thespilled Burgundy concerned but two of them. The eight othersengaged because they were men of 'spirit.' They were, indeed, thefirst gentlemen of the day. To-night, were you to spill Burgundy onmy cuff, were you even to insult me grossly, these gentlemen wouldnot consider it incumbent upon them to kill each other. They wouldseparate us, and to-morrow morning appear as witnesses against usat Bow Street. We have here to-night, in the persons of Sir Andrewand myself, an illustration of how the ways have changed."
The men around the table turned and glanced toward the gentlemanin front of the fireplace. He was an elderly and somewhat portlyperson, with a kindly, wrinkled countenance, which wore continuallya smile of almost childish confidence and good-nature. It was aface which the illustrated prints had made intimately familiar. Heheld a book from him at arm's-length, as if to adjust his eyesight,and his brows were knit with interest.
"Now, were this the eighteenth century," continued the gentlemanwith the black pearl, "when Sir Andrew left the Club to-night Iwould have him bound and gagged and thrown into a sedan chair. Thewatch would not interfere, the passers-by would take to theirheels, my hired bullies and ruffians would convey him to somelonely spot where we would guard him until morning. Nothing wouldcome of it, except added reputation to myself as a gentleman ofadventurous spirit, and possibly an essay in the 'Tatler' withstars for names, entitled, let us say, 'The Budget and theBaronet.'"
"But to what end, sir?" inquired the youngest of the members."And why Sir Andrew, of all persons—why should you select himfor this adventure?"
The gentleman with the black pearl shrugged his shoulders.
"It would prevent him speaking in the House to-night. The NavyIncrease Bill," he added, gloomily. "It is a Government measure,and Sir Andrew speaks for it. And so great is his influence and solarge his following that if he does"—the gentleman laughedruefully—"if he does, it will go through. Now, had I thespirit of our ancestors," he exclaimed, "I would bring chloroformfrom the nearest chemist's and drug him in that chair. I wouldtumble his unconscious form into a hansom-cab, and hold himprisoner until daylight. If I did, I would save the Britishtaxpayer the cost of five more battleships, many millions ofpounds."
The gentleman again turned, and surveyed the baronet withfreshened interest. The honorary member of the Grill, whose accentalready had betrayed him as an American, laughed softly.
"To look at him now," he said, "one would not guess he wasdeeply concerned with the affairs of state."
The others nodded silently.
"He has not lifted his eyes from that book since we firstentered," added the youngest member. "He surely cannot mean tospeak to-night."
"Oh, yes, he will speak," muttered the one with the black pearl,moodily. "During these last hours of the session the House sitslate, but when the Navy bill comes up on its third reading he willbe in his place—and he will pass it."
The fourth member, a stout and florid gentleman of a somewhatsporting appearance, in a short smoking-jacket and black tie,sighed enviously.
"Fancy one of us being as cool as that, if he knew he had tostand up within an hour and rattle off a speech in Parliament. I'dbe in a devil of a funk myself. And yet he is as keen over thatbook he's reading as though he had nothing before him untilbedtime."
"Yes, see how eager he is," whispered the youngest member. "Hedoes not lift his eyes even now when he cuts the pages. It isprobably an Admiralty Report, or some other weighty work ofstatistics which bears upon his speech."
The gentleman with the black pearl laughed morosely.
"The weighty work in which the eminent statesman is so deeplyengrossed," he said, "is called 'The Great Rand Robbery.' It is adetective novel for sale at all bookstalls."
The American raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
"'The Great Rand Robbery'?" he repeated, incredulously. "What anodd taste!"
"It is not a taste, it is his vice," returned the gentleman withthe pearl stud. "It is his one dissipation. He is noted for it.You, as a stranger, could hardly be expected to know of thisidiosyncrasy. Mr. Gladstone sought relaxation in the Greek poets,Sir Andrew finds his in Gaboriau. Since I have been a member ofParliament, I have never seen him in the library without a shillingshocker in his hands. He brings them even into the sacred precinctsof the House, and from the Government benches reads them concealedinside his hat. Once started on a tale of murder, robbery, andsudden death, nothing can tear him from it, not even the call ofthe division-bell, nor of hunger, nor the prayers of the partyWhip. He gave up his country house because when he journeyed to itin the train he would become so absorbed in his detective-storiesthat he was invariably carried past his station." The member ofParliament twisted his pearl stud nervously, and bit at the edge ofhis mustache. "If it only were the first pages of 'The RandRobbery' that he were reading," he murmured bitterly, "instead ofthe last! With such another book as that, I swear I could hold himhere until morning. There would be no need of chloroform to keephim from the House."
The eyes of all were fastened upon Sir Andrew, and each saw,with fascination, that, with his forefinger, he was now separatingthe last two pages of the book. The member of Parliament struck thetable, softly, with his open palm.
"I would give a hundred pounds," he whispered, "if I could placein his hands at this moment a new story of Sherlock Holmes—athousand pounds," he added, wildly—"five thousandpounds!"
The American observed the speaker sharply, as though the wordsbore to him some special application, and then, at an idea whichapparently had but just come to him, smiled, in greatembarrassment.
Sir Andrew ceased reading, but, as though still under theinfluence of the book, sat looking, blankly, into the open fire.For a brief space, no one moved until the baronet withdrew his eyesand, with a sudden start of recollection, felt, anxiously, for hiswatch. He scanned its face eagerly, and scrambled to his feet.
The voice of the American instantly broke the silence in a high,nervous accent.
"And yet Sherlock Holmes himself," he cried, "could not decipherthe mystery which to-night baffles the police of London."
At these unexpected words, which carried in them something ofthe tone of a challenge, the gentlemen about the table started assuddenly as though the American had fired a pistol in the air, andSir Andrew halted, abruptly, and stood observing him with gravesurprise.
The gentleman with the black pearl was the first to recover.
"Yes, yes," he said, eagerly, throwing himself across the table."A mystery that baffles the police of London. I have heard nothingof it. Tell us at once, pray do—tell us at once."
The American flushed uncomfortably, and picked, uneasily, at thetable-cloth.
"No one but the police has heard of it," he murmured, "and theyonly through me. It is a remarkable crime, to which, unfortunately,I am the only person who can bear witness. Because I am the onlywitness, I am, in spite of my immunity as a diplomat, detained inLondon by the authorities of Scotland Yard. My name," he said,inclining his head, politely, "is Sears, Lieutenant Ripley Sears,of the United States Navy, at present Naval Attache to the Court ofRussia. Had I not been detained to-day by the police, I would havestarted this morning for Petersburg."
The gentleman with the black pearl interrupted with sopronounced an exclamation of excitement and delight that theAmerican stammered and ceased speaking.
"Do you hear, Sir Andrew?" cried the member of Parliament,jubilantly. "An American diplomat halted by our police because heis the only witness of a most remarkable crime—THE mostremarkable crime, I believe you said, sir," he added, bendingeagerly toward the naval officer, "which has occurred in London inmany years."
The American moved his head in assent, and glanced at the twoother members. They were looking, doubtfully, at him, and the faceof each showed that he was greatly perplexed.
Sir Andrew advanced to within the light of the candles and drewa chair toward him.
"The crime must be exceptional, indeed," he said, "to justifythe police in interfering with a representative of a friendlypower. If I were not forced to leave at once, I should take theliberty of asking you to tell us the details."
The gentleman with the pearl pushed the chair toward Sir Andrew,and motioned him to be seated.
"You cannot leave us now," he exclaimed. "Mr. Sears is justabout to tell us of this remarkable crime."
He nodded, vigorously, at the naval officer and the American,after first glancing, doubtfully, toward the servants at the farend of the room, and leaned forward across the table. The othersdrew their chairs nearer and bent toward him. The baronet glanced,irresolutely, at his watch, and, with an exclamation of annoyance,snapped down the lid. "They can wait," he muttered. He seatedhimself quickly, and nodded at Lieutenant Sears.
"If you will be so kind as to begin, sir," he said,impatiently.
"Of course," said the American, "you understand that Iunderstand that I am speaking to gentlemen. The confidences of thisClub are inviolate. Until the police give the facts to the publicpress, I must consider you my confederates. You have heard nothing,you know no one connected with this mystery. Even I must remainanonymous."
The gentlemen seated around him nodded gravely.
"Of course," the baronet assented, with eagerness, "ofcourse."
"We will refer to it," said the gentleman with the black pearl,"as 'The Story of the Naval Attache.'"
"I arrived in London two days ago," said the American, "and Iengaged a room at the Bath Hotel. I know very few people in London,and even the members of our embassy were strangers to me. But inHong Kong I had become great pals with an officer in your navy, whohas since retired, and who is now living in a small house inRutland Gardens, opposite the Knightsbridge Barracks. I telegraphedhim that I was in London, and yesterday morning I received a mosthearty invitation to dine with him the same evening at his house.He is a bachelor, so we dined alone and talked over all our olddays on the Asiatic Station and of the changes which had come to ussince we had last met there. As I was leaving the next morning formy post at Petersburg, and had many letters to write, I told him,about ten o'clock, that I must get back to the hotel, and he sentout his servant to call a hansom.
"For the next quarter of an hour, as we sat talking, we couldhear the cab-whistle sounding, violently, from the doorstep, butapparently with no result.
"'It cannot be that the cabmen are on strike,' my friend said,as he rose and walked to the window.
"He pulled back the curtains and at once called to me.
"'You have never seen a London fog, have you?' he asked. 'Well,come here. This is one of the best, or, rather, one of the worst,of them.' I joined him at the window, but I could see nothing. HadI not known that the house looked out upon the street I would havebelieved that I was facing a dead wall. I raised the sash andstretched out my head, but still I could see nothing. Even thelight of the street- lamps, opposite, and in the upper windows ofthe barracks, had been smothered in the yellow mist. The lights ofthe room in which I stood penetrated the fog only to the distanceof a few inches from my eyes.
"Below me the servant was still sounding his whistle, but Icould afford to wait no longer, and told my friend that I would tryand find the way to my hotel on foot. He objected, but the lettersI had to write were for the Navy Department, and, besides, I hadalways heard that to be out in a London fog was the most wonderfulexperience, and I was curious to investigate one for myself.
"My friend went with me to his front door, and laid down acourse for me to follow. I was first to walk straight across thestreet to the brick wall of the Knightsbridge Barracks. I was thento feel my way along the wall until I came to a row of houses setback from the sidewalk. They would bring me to a cross street. Onthe other side of this street was a row of shops which I was tofollow until they joined the iron railings of Hyde Park. I was tokeep to the railings until I reached the gates at Hyde Park Corner,where I was to lay a diagonal course across Piccadilly, and tack intoward the railings of Green Park. At the end of these railings,going east, I would find the Walsingham, and my own hotel.
"To a sailor the course did not seem difficult, so I bade myfriend good-night and walked forward until my feet touched thepaving. I continued upon it until I reached the curbing of thesidewalk. A few steps further, and my hands struck the wall of thebarracks. I turned in the direction from which I had just come, andsaw a square of faint light cut in the yellow fog. I shouted, 'Allright,' and the voice of my friend answered, 'Good luck to you.'The light from his open door disappeared with a bang, and I wasleft alone in a dripping, yellow darkness. I have been in the Navyfor ten years, but I have never known such a fog as that of lastnight, not even among the icebergs of Behring Sea. There one atleast could see the light of the binnacle, but last night I couldnot even distinguish the hand by which I guided myself along thebarrack-wall. At sea a fog is a natural phenomenon. It is asfamiliar as the rainbow which follows a storm, it is as proper thata fog should spread upon the waters as that steam shall rise from akettle. But a fog which springs from the paved streets, that rollsbetween solid house-fronts, that forces cabs to move at half speed,that drowns policemen and extinguishes the electric lights of themusic-hall, that to me is incomprehensible. It is as out of placeas a tidal wave on Broadway.
"As I felt my way along the wall, I encountered other men whowere coming from the opposite direction, and each time when wehailed each other I stepped away from the wall to make room forthem to pass. But the third time I did this, when I reached out myhand, the wall had disappeared, and the further I moved to find itthe further I seemed to be sinking into space. I had the unpleasantconviction that at any moment I might step over a precipice. SinceI had set out, I had heard no traffic in the street, and now,although I listened some minutes, I could only distinguish theoccasional footfalls of pedestrians. Several times I called aloud,and once a jocular gentleman answered me, but only to ask me whereI thought he was, and then even he was swallowed up in the silence.Just above me I could make out a jet of gas which I guessed camefrom a street-lamp, and I moved over to that, and, while I tried torecover my bearings, kept my hand on the iron post. Except for thisnicker of gas, no larger than the tip of my finger, I coulddistinguish nothing about me. For the rest, the mist hung betweenme and the world like a damp and heavy blanket.
"I could hear voices, but I could not tell from whence theycame, and the scrape of a foot, moving cautiously, or a muffled cryas someone stumbled, were the only sounds that reached me.
"I decided that until someone took me in I had best remain whereI was, and it must have been for ten minutes that I waited by thelamp, straining my ears and hailing distant footfalls. In a housenear me some people were dancing to the music of a Hungarian band.I even fancied I could hear the windows shake to the rhythm oftheir feet, but I could not make out from which part of the compassthe sounds came. And sometimes, as the music rose, it seemed closeat my hand, and, again, to be floating high in the air above myhead. Although I was surrounded by thousands of householders, I wasas completely lost as though I had been set down by night in theSahara Desert. There seemed to be no reason in waiting longer foran escort, so I again set out, and at once bumped against a low,iron fence. At first I believed this to be an area railing, but, onfollowing it, I found that it stretched for a long distance, andthat it was pierced at regular intervals with gates. I wasstanding, uncertainly, with my hand on one of these, when a squareof light suddenly opened in the night, and in it I saw, as you seea picture thrown by a biograph in a darkened theatre, a younggentleman in evening dress, and, back of him, the lights of a hall.I guessed, from its elevation and distance from the sidewalk, thatthis light must come from the door of a house set back from thestreet, and I determined to approach it and ask the young man totell me where I was. But, in fumbling with the lock of the gate, Iinstinctively bent my head, and when I raised it again the door hadpartly closed, leaving only a narrow shaft of light. Whether theyoung man had re-entered the house, or had left it I could nottell, but I hastened to open the gate, and as I stepped forward Ifound myself upon an asphalt walk. At the same instant there wasthe sound of quick steps upon the path, and someone rushed past me.I called to him, but he made no reply, and I heard the gate clickand the footsteps hurrying away upon the sidewalk.
"Under other circumstances the young man's rudeness, and hisrecklessness in dashing so hurriedly through the mist, would havestruck me as peculiar, but everything was so distorted by the fogthat at the moment I did not consider it. The door was still as hehad left it, partly open. I went up the path, and, after muchfumbling, found the knob of the door-bell and gave it a sharp pull.The bell answered me from a great depth and distance, but nomovement followed from inside the house, and, although I pulled thebell again and again, I could hear nothing save the dripping of themist about me. I was anxious to be on my way, but unless I knewwhere I was going there was little chance of my making any speed,and I was determined that until I learned my bearings I would notventure back into the fog. So I pushed the door open and steppedinto the house.
"I found myself in a long and narrow hall, upon which doorsopened from either side. At the end of the hall was a staircasewith a balustrade which ended in a sweeping curve. The balustradewas covered with heavy, Persian rugs, and the walls of the hallwere also hung with them. The door on my left was closed, but theone nearer me on the right was open, and, as I stepped opposite toit, I saw that it was a sort of reception or waiting-room, and thatit was empty. The door below it was also open, and, with the ideathat I would surely find someone there, I walked on up the hall. Iwas in evening dress, and I felt I did not look like a burglar, soI had no great fear that, should I encounter one of the inmates ofthe house, he would shoot me on sight. The second door in the hallopened into a dining-room. This was also empty. One person had beendining at the table, but the cloth had not been cleared away, and aflickering candle showed half-filled wineglasses and the ashes ofcigarettes. The greater part of the room was in completedarkness.
"By this time I had grown conscious of the fact that I waswandering about in a strange house, and that, apparently, I wasalone in it. The silence of the place began to try my nerves, andin a sudden, unexplainable panic I started for the open street. Butas I turned, I saw a man sitting on a bench, which the curve of thebalustrade had hidden from me. His eyes were shut, and he wassleeping soundly.
"The moment before I had been bewildered because I could see noone, but at sight of this man I was much more bewildered.
"He was a very large man, a giant in height, with long, yellowhair, which hung below his shoulders. He was dressed in a red silkshirt, that was belted at the waist and hung outside black velvettrousers, which, in turn, were stuffed into high, black boots. Irecognized the costume at once as that of a Russian servant, butwhat a Russian servant in his native livery could be doing in aprivate house in Knightsbridge was incomprehensible.
"I advanced and touched the man on the shoulder, and, after aneffort, he awoke, and, on seeing me, sprang to his feet and beganbowing rapidly, and making deprecatory gestures. I had picked upenough Russian in Petersburg to make out that the man wasapologizing for having fallen asleep, and I also was able toexplain to him that I desired to see his master.
"He nodded vigorously, and said, 'Will the Excellency come thisway? The Princess is here.'
"I distinctly made out the word 'princess,' and I was a gooddeal embarrassed. I had thought it would be easy enough to explainmy intrusion to a man, but how a woman would look at it was anothermatter, and as I followed him down the hall I was somewhatpuzzled.
"As we advanced, he noticed that the front door was standingopen, and with an exclamation of surprise, hastened toward it andclosed it. Then he rapped twice on the door of what was apparentlythe drawing-room. There was no reply to his knock, and he tappedagain, and then, timidly, and cringing subserviently, opened thedoor and stepped inside. He withdrew himself at once and staredstupidly at me, shaking his head.
"'She is not there,' he said. He stood for a moment, gazingblankly through the open door, and then hastened toward thedining-room. The solitary candle which still burned there seemed toassure him that the room also was empty. He came back and bowed metoward the drawing-room. 'She is above,' he said; 'I will informthe Princess of the Excellency's presence.'
"Before I could stop him, he had turned and was running up thestaircase, leaving me alone at the open door of the drawing-room. Idecided that the adventure had gone quite far enough, and if I hadbeen able to explain to the Russian that I had lost my way in thefog, and only wanted to get back into the street again, I wouldhave left the house on the instant.
"Of course, when I first rang the bell of the house I had noother expectation than that it would be answered by a parlor-maidwho would direct me on my way. I certainly could not then foreseethat I would disturb a Russian princess in her boudoir, or that Imight be thrown out by her athletic bodyguard. Still, I thought Iought not now to leave the house without making some apology, and,if the worst should come, I could show my card. They could hardlybelieve that a member of an Embassy had any designs upon thehat-rack.
"The room in which I stood was dimly lighted, but I could seethat, like the hall, it was hung with heavy, Persian rugs. Thecorners were filled with palms, and there was the unmistakable odorin the air of Russian cigarettes, and strange, dry scents thatcarried me back to the bazaars of Vladivostock. Near the frontwindows was a grand piano, and at the other end of the room aheavily carved screen of some black wood, picked out with ivory.The screen was overhung with a canopy of silken draperies, andformed a sort of alcove. In front of the alcove was spread thewhite skin of a polar bear, and set on that was one of those low,Turkish coffee-tables. It held a lighted spirit-lamp and two goldcoffee-cups. I had heard no movement from above stairs, and it musthave been fully three minutes that I stood waiting, noting thesedetails of the room and wondering at the delay, and at the strangesilence.
"And then, suddenly, as my eye grew more used to the half-light,I saw, projecting from behind the screen, as though it werestretched along the back of a divan, the hand of a man and thelower part of his arm. I was as startled as though I had comeacross a footprint on a deserted island. Evidently, the man hadbeen sitting there since I had come into the room, even since I hadentered the house, and he had heard the servant knocking upon thedoor. Why he had not declared himself I could not understand, but Isupposed that, possibly, he was a guest, with no reason to interesthimself in the Princess's other visitors, or, perhaps, for somereason, he did not wish to be observed. I could see nothing of himexcept his hand, but I had an unpleasant feeling that he had beenpeering at me through the carving in the screen, and that he stillwas doing so. I moved my feet noisily on the floor and said,tentatively, 'I beg your pardon.'
"There was no reply, and the hand did not stir. Apparently, theman was bent upon ignoring me, but, as all I wished was toapologize for my intrusion and to leave the house, I walked up tothe alcove and peered around it. Inside the screen was a divanpiled with cushions, and on the end of it nearer me the man wassitting. He was a young Englishman with light-yellow hair and adeeply bronzed face. He was seated with his arms stretched outalong the back of the divan, and with his head resting against acushion. His attitude was one of complete ease. But his mouth hadfallen open, and his eyes were set with an expression of utterhorror. At the first glance, I saw that he was quite dead.
"For a flash of time I was too startled to act, but in the sameflash I was convinced that the man had met his death from noaccident, that he had not died through any ordinary failure of thelaws of nature. The expression on his face was much too terrible tobe misinterpreted. It spoke as eloquently as words. It told me thatbefore the end had come he had watched his death approach andthreaten him.
"I was so sure he had been murdered that I instinctively lookedon the floor for the weapon, and, at the same moment, out ofconcern for my own safety, quickly behind me; but the silence ofthe house continued unbroken.
"I have seen a great number of dead men; I was on the AsiaticStation during the Japanese-Chinese war. I was in Port Arthur afterthe massacre. So a dead man, for the single reason that he is dead,does not repel me, and, though I knew that there was no hope thatthis man was alive, still, for decency's sake, I felt his pulse,and, while I kept my ears alert for any sound from the floors aboveme, I pulled open his shirt and placed my hand upon his heart. Myfingers instantly touched upon the opening of a wound, and as Iwithdrew them I found them wet with blood. He was in evening dress,and in the wide bosom of his shirt I found a narrow slit, so narrowthat in the dim light it was scarcely discernible. The wound was nowider than the smallest blade of a pocket-knife, but when Istripped the shirt away from the chest and left it bare, I foundthat the weapon, narrow as it was, had been long enough to reachhis heart. There is no need to tell you how I felt as I stood bythe body of this boy, for he was hardly older than a boy, or of thethoughts that came into my head. I was bitterly sorry for thisstranger, bitterly indignant at his murderer, and, at the sametime, selfishly concerned for my own safety and for the notorietywhich I saw was sure to follow. My instinct was to leave the bodywhere it lay, and to hide myself in the fog, but I also felt thatsince a succession of accidents had made me the only witness to acrime, my duty was to make myself a good witness and to assist toestablish the facts of this murder.
"That it might, possibly, be a suicide, and not a murder, didnot disturb me for a moment. The fact that the weapon haddisappeared, and the expression on the boy's face were enough toconvince, at least me, that he had had no hand in his own death. Ijudged it, therefore, of the first importance to discover who wasin the house, or, if they had escaped from it, who had been in thehouse before I entered it. I had seen one man leave it; but all Icould tell of him was that he was a young man, that he was inevening dress, and that he had fled in such haste that he had notstopped to close the door behind him.
"The Russian servant I had found apparently asleep, and, unlesshe acted a part with supreme skill, he was a stupid and ignorantboor, and as innocent of the murder as myself. There was still theRussian princess whom he had expected to find, or had pretended toexpect to find, in the same room with the murdered man. I judgedthat she must now be either upstairs with the servant, or that shehad, without his knowledge, already fled from the house. When Irecalled his apparently genuine surprise at not finding her in thedrawing-room, this latter supposition seemed the more probable.Nevertheless, I decided that it was my duty to make a search, andafter a second hurried look for the weapon among the cushions ofthe divan, and upon the floor, I cautiously crossed the hall andentered the dining-room.
"The single candle was still flickering in the draught, andshowed only the white cloth. The rest of the room was draped inshadows. I picked up the candle, and, lifting it high above myhead, moved around the corner of the table. Either my nerves wereon such a stretch that no shock could strain them further, or mymind was inoculated to horrors, for I did not cry out at what I sawnor retreat from it. Immediately at my feet was the body of abeautiful woman, lying at full length upon the floor, her armsflung out on either side of her, and her white face and shouldersgleaming, dully, in the unsteady light of the candle. Around herthroat was a great chain of diamonds, and the light played uponthese and made them flash and blaze in tiny flames. But the womanwho wore them was dead, and I was so certain as to how she had diedthat, without an instant's hesitation, I dropped on my knees besideher and placed my hands above her heart. My fingers again touchedthe thin slit of a wound. I had no doubt in my mind but that thiswas the Russian princess, and when I lowered the candle to her faceI was assured that this was so. Her features showed the finestlines of both the Slav and the Jewess; the eyes were black, thehair blue-black and wonderfully heavy, and her skin, even in death,was rich in color. She was a surpassingly beautiful woman.
"I rose and tried to light another candle with the one I held,but I found that my hand was so unsteady that I could not keep thewicks together. It was my intention to again search for thisstrange dagger which had been used to kill both the English boy andthe beautiful princess, but before I could light the second candleI heard footsteps descending the stairs, and the Russian servantappeared in the doorway.
"My face was in darkness, or I am sure that, at the sight of it,he would have taken alarm, for at that moment I was not sure butthat this man himself was the murderer. His own face was plainlyvisible to me in the light from the hall, and I could see that itwore an expression of dull bewilderment. I stepped quickly towardhim and took a firm hold upon his wrist.
"'She is not there,' he said. 'The Princess has gone. They haveall gone.'
"'Who have gone?' I demanded. 'Who else has been here? '
"'The two Englishmen,' he said.
"'What two Englishmen?' I demanded. 'What are their names?'
"The man now saw by my manner that some question of great momenthung upon his answer, and he began to protest that he did not knowthe names of the visitors and that until that evening he had neverseen them.
"I guessed that it was my tone which frightened him, so I tookmy hand off his wrist and spoke less eagerly.
"'How long have they been here?' I asked, 'and when did theygo?'
"He pointed behind him toward the drawing-room.
"'One sat there with the Princess,' he said; 'the other cameafter I had placed the coffee in the drawing-room. The twoEnglishmen talked together, and the Princess returned here to thetable. She sat there in that chair, and I brought her cognac andcigarettes. Then I sat outside upon the bench. It was a feast-day,and I had been drinking. Pardon, Excellency, but I fell asleep.When I woke, your Excellency was standing by me, but the Princessand the two Englishmen had gone. That is all I know.'
"I believed that the man was telling me the truth. His frighthad passed, and he was now apparently puzzled, but not alarmed.
"'You must remember the names of the Englishmen,' I urged. 'Tryto think. When you announced them to the Princess what name did yougive?'
"At this question he exclaimed, with pleasure, and, beckoning tome, ran hurriedly down the hall and into the drawing-room. In thecorner furthest from the screen was the piano, and on it was asilver tray. He picked this up and, smiling with pride at his ownintelligence, pointed at two cards that lay upon it. I took them upand read the names engraved upon them."
The American paused abruptly, and glanced at the faces abouthim. "I read the names," he repeated. He spoke with greatreluctance.
"Continue!" cried the baronet, sharply.
"I read the names," said the American with evident distaste,"and the family name of each was the same. They were the names oftwo brothers. One is well known to you. It is that of the Africanexplorer of whom this gentleman was just speaking. I mean the Earlof Chetney. The other was the name of his brother. Lord ArthurChetney."
The men at the table fell back as though a trapdoor had fallenopen at their feet.
"Lord Chetney?" they exclaimed, in chorus. They glanced at eachother and back to the American, with every expression of concernand disbelief.
"It is impossible!" cried the Baronet. "Why, my dear sir, youngChetney only arrived from Africa yesterday. It was so stated in theevening papers."
The jaw of the American set in a resolute square, and he pressedhis lips together.
"You are perfectly right, sir," he said, "Lord Chetney didarrive in London yesterday morning, and yesterday night I found hisdead body."
The youngest member present was the first to recover. He seemedmuch less concerned over the identity of the murdered man than atthe interruption of the narrative.
"Oh, please let him go on!" he cried. "What happened then? Yousay you found two visiting-cards. How do you know which card wasthat of the murdered man?"
The American, before he answered, waited until the chorus ofexclamations had ceased. Then he continued as though he had notbeen interrupted.
"The instant I read the names upon the cards," he said, "I ranto the screen and, kneeling beside the dead man, began a searchthrough his pockets. My hand at once fell upon a card-case, and Ifound on all the cards it contained the title of the Earl ofChetney. His watch and cigarette-case also bore his name. Theseevidences, and the fact of his bronzed skin, and that hischeek-bones were worn with fever, convinced me that the dead manwas the African explorer, and the boy who had fled past me in thenight was Arthur, his younger brother.
"I was so intent upon my search that I had forgotten theservant, and I was still on my knees when I heard a cry behind me.I turned, and saw the man gazing down at the body in abjecthorror.
"Before I could rise, he gave another cry of terror, and,flinging himself into the hall, raced toward the door to thestreet. I leaped after him, shouting to him to halt, but before Icould reach the hall he had torn open the door, and I saw himspring out into the yellow fog. I cleared the steps in a jump andran down the garden-walk but just as the gate clicked in front ofme. I had it open on the instant, and, following the sound of theman's footsteps, I raced after him across the open street. He,also, could hear me, and he instantly stopped running, and therewas absolute silence. He was so near that I almost fancied I couldhear him panting, and I held my own breath to listen. But I coulddistinguish nothing but the dripping of the mist about us, and fromfar off the music of the Hungarian band, which I had heard when Ifirst lost myself.
"All I could see was the square of light from the door I hadleft open behind me, and a lamp in the hall beyond it flickering inthe draught. But even as I watched it, the flame of the lamp wasblown violently to and fro, and the door, caught in the samecurrent of air, closed slowly. I knew if it shut I could not againenter the house, and I rushed madly toward it. I believe I evenshouted out, as though it were something human which I could compelto obey me, and then I caught my foot against the curb and smashedinto the sidewalk. When I rose to my feet I was dizzy and halfstunned, and though I thought then that I was moving toward thedoor, I know now that I probably turned directly from it; for, as Igroped about in the night, calling frantically for the police, myfingers touched nothing but the dripping fog, and the iron railingsfor which I sought seemed to have melted away. For many minutes Ibeat the mist with my arms like one at blind man's buff, turningsharply in circles, cursing aloud at my stupidity and cryingcontinually for help. At last a voice answered me from the fog, andI found myself held in the circle of a policeman's lantern.
"That is the end of my adventure. What I have to tell you now iswhat I learned from the police.
"At the station-house to which the man guided me I related whatyou have just heard. I told them that the house they must at oncefind was one set back from the street within a radius of twohundred yards from the Knightsbridge Barracks, that within fiftyyards of it someone was giving a dance to the music of a Hungarianband, and that the railings before it were as high as a man's waistand filed to a point. With that to work upon, twenty men were atonce ordered out into the fog to search for the house, andInspector Lyle himself was despatched to the home of Lord Edam,Chetney's father, with a warrant for Lord Arthur's arrest. I wasthanked and dismissed on my own recognizance.
"This morning, Inspector Lyle called on me, and from him Ilearned the police theory of the scene I have just described.
"Apparently, I had wandered very far in the fog, for up to noonto- day the house had not been found, nor had they been able toarrest Lord Arthur. He did not return to his father's house lastnight, and there is no trace of him; but from what the police knewof the past lives of the people I found in that lost house, theyhave evolved a theory, and their theory is that the murders werecommitted by Lord Arthur.
"The infatuation of his elder brother, Lord Chetney, for aRussian princess, so Inspector Lyle tells me, is well known toeveryone. About two years ago the Princess Zichy, as she callsherself, and he were constantly together, and Chetney informed hisfriends that they were about to be married. The woman was notoriousin two continents, and when Lord Edam heard of his son'sinfatuation he appealed to the police for her record.
"It is through his having applied to them that they know so muchconcerning her and her relations with the Chetneys. From the policeLord Edam learned that Madame Zichy had once been a spy in theemploy of the Russian Third Section, but that lately she had beenrepudiated by her own government and was living by her wits, byblackmail, and by her beauty. Lord Edam laid this record before hisson, but Chetney either knew it already or the woman persuaded himnot to believe in it, and the father and son parted in great anger.Two days later the marquis altered his will, leaving all of hismoney to the younger brother, Arthur.
"The title and some of the landed property he could not keepfrom Chetney, but he swore if his son saw the woman again that thewill should stand as it was, and he would be left without apenny.
"This was about eighteen months ago, when, apparently, Chetneytired of the Princess, and suddenly went off to shoot and explorein Central Africa. No word came from him, except that twice he wasreported as having died of fever in the jungle, and finally twotraders reached the coast who said they had seen his body. This wasaccepted by all as conclusive, and young Arthur was recognized asthe heir to the Edam millions. On the strength of this suppositionhe at once began to borrow enormous sums from the money-lenders.This is of great importance, as the police believe it was thesedebts which drove him to the murder of his brother. Yesterday, asyou know, Lord Chetney suddenly returned from the grave, and it wasthe fact that for two years he had been considered as dead whichlent such importance to his return and which gave rise to thosecolumns of detail concerning him which appeared in all theafternoon papers. But, obviously, during his absence he had nottired of the Princess Zichy, for we know that a few hours after hereached London he sought her out. His brother, who had also learnedof his reappearance through the papers, probably suspected whichwould be the house he would first visit, and followed him there,arriving, so the Russian servant tells us, while the two were atcoffee in the drawing-room. The Princess, then, we also learn fromthe servant, withdrew to the dining-room, leaving the brotherstogether. What happened one can only guess.
"Lord Arthur knew now that when it was discovered he was nolonger the heir, the moneylenders would come down upon him. Thepolice believe that he at once sought out his brother to beg formoney to cover the post-obits, but that, considering the sum heneeded was several hundreds of thousands of pounds, Chetney refusedto give it him. No one knew that Arthur had gone to seek out hisbrother. They were alone. It is possible, then, that in a passionof disappointment, and crazed with the disgrace which he saw beforehim, young Arthur made himself the heir beyond further question.The death of his brother would have availed nothing if the womanremained alive. It is then possible that he crossed the hall, and,with the same weapon which made him Lord Edam's heir, destroyed thesolitary witness to the murder. The only other person who couldhave seen it was sleeping in a drunken stupor, to which factundoubtedly he owed his life. And yet," concluded the NavalAttache, leaning forward and marking each word with his finger,"Lord Arthur blundered fatally. In his haste he left the door ofthe house open, so giving access to the first passer-by, and heforgot that when he entered it he had handed his card to theservant. That piece of paper may yet send him to the gallows. Inthe meantime, he has disappeared completely, and somewhere, in oneof the millions of streets of this great capital, in a locked andempty house, lies the body of his brother, and of the woman hisbrother loved, undiscovered, unburied; and with their murderunavenged."
In the discussion which followed the conclusion of the story ofthe Naval Attache, the gentleman with the pearl took no part.Instead, he arose, and, beckoning a servant to a far corner of theroom, whispered earnestly to him until a sudden movement on thepart of Sir Andrew caused him to return hurriedly to the table.
"There are several points in Mr. Sears's story I wantexplained," he cried. "Be seated, Sir Andrew," he begged. "Let ushave the opinion of an expert. I do not care what the police think,I want to know what you think."
But Sir Andrew rose reluctantly from his chair.
"I should like nothing better than to discuss this," he said."But it is most important that I proceed to the House. I shouldhave been there some time ago." He turned toward the servant anddirected him to call a hansom.
The gentleman with the pearl stud looked appealingly at theNaval Attache. "There are surely many details that you have nottold us," he urged. "Some you have forgotten."
The Baronet interrupted quickly.
"I trust not," he said, "for I could not possibly stop to hearthem."
"The story is finished," declared the Naval Attache; "until LordArthur is arrested or the bodies are found there is nothing more totell of either Chetney or the Princess Zichy."
"Of Lord Chetney, perhaps not," interrupted the sporting-lookinggentleman with the black tie, "but there'll always be something totell of the Princess Zichy. I know enough stories about her to filla book. She was a most remarkable woman." The speaker dropped theend of his cigar into his coffee-cup and, taking his case from hispocket, selected a fresh one. As he did so he laughed and held upthe case that the others might see it. It was an ordinarycigar-case of well-worn pig-skin, with a silver clasp.
"The only time I ever met her," he said, "she tried to rob me ofthis."
The Baronet regarded him closely.
"She tried to rob you?" he repeated.
"Tried to rob me of this," continued the gentleman in the blacktie, "and of the Czarina's diamonds." His tone was one of mingledadmiration and injury.
"The Czarina's diamonds!" exclaimed the Baronet. He glancedquickly and suspiciously at the speaker, and then at the othersabout the table. But their faces gave evidence of no other emotionthan that of ordinary interest.
"Yes, the Czarina's diamonds," repeated the man with the blacktie. "It was a necklace of diamonds. I was told to take them to theRussian Ambassador in Paris, who was to deliver them at Moscow. Iam a Queen's Messenger," he added.
"Oh, I see," exclaimed Sir Andrew, in a tone of relief. "And yousay that this same Princess Zichy, one of the victims of thisdouble murder, endeavored to rob you of—of—thatcigar-case."
"And the Czarina's diamonds," answered the Queen's Messenger,imperturbably. "It's not much of a story, but it gives you an ideaof the woman's character. The robbery took place between Paris andMarseilles."
The Baronet interrupted him with an abrupt movement. "No, no,"he cried, shaking his head in protest. "Do not tempt me. I reallycannot listen. I must be at the House in ten minutes."
"I am sorry," said the Queen's Messenger. He turned to thoseseated about him. "I wonder if the other gentlemen—" heinquired, tentatively. There was a chorus of polite murmurs, andthe Queen's Messenger, bowing his head in acknowledgment, took apreparatory sip from his glass. At the same moment the servant towhom the man with the black pearl had spoken, slipped a piece ofpaper into his hand. He glanced at it, frowned, and threw it underthe table.
The servant bowed to the Baronet.
"Your hansom is waiting, Sir Andrew," he said.
"The necklace was worth twenty thousand pounds," began theQueen's Messenger, "It was a present from the Queen of England tocelebrate— " The Baronet gave an exclamation of angryannoyance.
"Upon my word, this is most provoking," he interrupted. "Ireally ought not to stay. But I certainly mean to hear this." Heturned irritably to the servant. "Tell the hansom to wait," hecommanded, and, with an air of a boy who is playing truant, slippedguiltily into his chair.
The gentleman with the black pearl smiled blandly, and rappedupon the table.
"Order, gentlemen," he said. "Order for the story of the Queen'sMessenger and the Czarina's diamonds."
"The necklace was a present from the Queen of England to theCzarina of Russia," began the Queen's Messenger. "It was tocelebrate the occasion of the Czar's coronation. Our Foreign Officeknew that the Russian Ambassador in Paris was to proceed to Moscowfor that ceremony, and I was directed to go to Paris and turn overthe necklace to him. But when I reached Paris I found he had notexpected me for a week later and was taking a few days' vacation atNice. His people asked me to leave the necklace with them at theEmbassy, but I had been charged to get a receipt for it from theAmbassador himself, so I started at once for Nice. The fact thatMonte Carlo is not two thousand miles from Nice may have hadsomething to do with making me carry out my instructions socarefully.
"Now, how the Princess Zichy came to find out about the necklaceI don't know, but I can guess. As you have just heard, she was atone time a spy in the service of the Russian Government. And afterthey dismissed her she kept up her acquaintance with many of theRussian agents in London. It is probable that through one of themshe learned that the necklace was to be sent to Moscow, and whichone of the Queen's Messengers had been detailed to take it there.Still, I doubt if even that knowledge would have helped her if shehad not also known something which I supposed no one else in theworld knew but myself and one other man. And, curiously enough, theother man was a Queen's Messenger, too, and a friend of mine. Youmust know that up to the time of this robbery I had alwaysconcealed my despatches in a manner peculiarly my own. I got theidea from that play called 'A Scrap of Paper.' In it a man wants tohide a certain compromising document. He knows that all his roomswill be secretly searched for it, so he puts it in a torn envelopeand sticks it up where anyone can see it on his mantle-shelf. Theresult is that the woman who is ransacking the house to find itlooks in all the unlikely places, but passes over the scrap ofpaper that is just under her nose. Sometimes the papers andpackages they give us to carry about Europe are of very greatvalue, and sometimes they are special makes of cigarettes, andorders to court-dressmakers. Sometimes we know what we are carryingand sometimes we do not. If it is a large sum of money or a treaty,they generally tell us. But, as a rule, we have no knowledge ofwhat the package contains; so to be on the safe side, we naturallytake just as great care of it as though we knew it held the termsof an ultimatum or the crown-jewels. As a rule, my confreres carrythe official packages in a despatch-box, which is just as obviousas a lady's jewel-bag in the hands of her maid. Everyone knows theyare carrying something of value. They put a premium on dishonesty.Well, after I saw the 'Scrap-of-Paper' play, I determined to putthe government valuables in the most unlikely place that anyonewould look for them. So I used to hide the documents they gave meinside my riding-boots, and small articles, such as money orjewels, I carried in an old cigar-case. After I took to using mycase for that purpose I bought a new one, exactly like it, for mycigars. But, to avoid mistakes, I had my initials placed on bothsides of the new one, and the moment I touched the case, even inthe dark, I could tell which it was by the raised initials.
"No one knew of this except the Queen's Messenger of whom Ispoke. We once left Paris together on the Orient Express. I wasgoing to Constantinople and he was to stop off at Vienna. On thejourney I told him of my peculiar way of hiding things and showedhim my cigar- case. If I recollect rightly, on that trip it heldthe grand cross of St. Michael and St. George, which the Queen wassending to our Ambassador. The Messenger was very much entertainedat my scheme, and some months later when he met the Princess hetold her about it as an amusing story. Of course, he had no ideashe was a Russian spy. He didn't know anything at all about her,except that she was a very attractive woman. It was indiscreet, buthe could not possibly have guessed that she could ever make any useof what he told her.
"Later, after the robbery, I remembered that I had informed thisyoung chap of my secret hiding-place, and when I saw him again Iquestioned him about it. He was greatly distressed, and said he hadnever seen the importance of the secret. He remembered he had toldseveral people of it, and among others the Princess Zichy. In thatway I found out that it was she who had robbed me, and I know thatfrom the moment I left London she was following me, and that sheknew then that the diamonds were concealed in my cigar-case.
"My train for Nice left Paris at ten in the morning. When Itravel at night I generally tell the chef de gare that I am aQueen's Messenger, and he gives me a compartment to myself, but inthe daytime I take whatever offers. On this morning I had found anempty compartment, and I had tipped the guard to keep everyone elseout, not from any fear of losing the diamonds, but because I wantedto smoke. He had locked the door, and as the last bell had rung Isupposed I was to travel alone, so I began to arrange my traps andmake myself comfortable. The diamonds in the cigar-case were in theinside pocket of my waistcoat, and as they made a bulky package, Itook them out, intending to put them in my hand-bag. It is a smallsatchel like a bookmaker's, or those hand-bags that couriers carry.I wear it slung from a strap across my shoulders, and, no matterwhether I am sitting or walking, it never leaves me.
"I took the cigar-case which held the necklace from my insidepocket and the case which held the cigars out of the satchel, andwhile I was searching through it for a box of matches I laid thetwo cases beside me on the seat.
"At that moment the train started, but at the same instant therewas a rattle at the lock of the compartment, and a couple ofporters lifted and shoved a woman through the door, and hurled herrugs and umbrellas in after her.
"Instinctively I reached for the diamonds. I shoved them quicklyinto the satchel and, pushing them far down to the bottom of thebag, snapped the spring-lock. Then I put the cigars in the pocketof my coat, but with the thought that now that I had a woman as atravelling companion I would probably not be allowed to enjoythem.
"One of her pieces of luggage had fallen at my feet, and a rollof rugs had landed at my side. I thought if I hid the fact that thelady was not welcome, and at once endeavored to be civil, she mightpermit me to smoke. So I picked her hand-bag off the floor andasked her where I might place it.
"As I spoke I looked at her for the first time, and saw that shewas a most remarkably handsome woman.
"She smiled charmingly and begged me not to disturb myself. Thenshe arranged her own things about her, and, opening herdressing-bag, took out a gold cigarette-case.
"'Do you object to smoke?' she asked.
"I laughed and assured her I had been in great terror lest shemight object to it herself.
"'If you like cigarettes,' she said, 'will you try some ofthese? They are rolled especially for my husband in Russia, andthey are supposed to be very good.'
"I thanked her, and took one from her case, and I found it somuch better than my own that I continued to smoke her cigarettesthroughout the rest of the journey. I must say that we got on verywell. I judged from the coronet on her cigarette-case, and from hermanner, which was quite as well bred as that of any woman I evermet, that she was someone of importance, and though she seemedalmost too good-looking to be respectable, I determined that shewas some grande dame who was so assured of her position that shecould afford to be unconventional. At first she read her novel, andthen she made some comment on the scenery, and finally we began todiscuss the current politics of the Continent. She talked of allthe cities in Europe, and seemed to know everyone worth knowing.But she volunteered nothing about herself except that shefrequently made use of the expression, 'When my husband wasstationed at Vienna,' or 'When my husband was promoted to Rome.'Once she said to me, 'I have often seen you at Monte Carlo. I sawyou when you won the pigeon- championship.' I told her that I wasnot a pigeon-shot, and she gave a little start of surprise. 'Oh, Ibeg your pardon,' she said; 'I thought you were Morton Hamilton,the English champion.' As a matter of fact, I do look likeHamilton, but I know now that her object was to make me think thatshe had no idea as to who I really was. She needn't have acted atall, for I certainly had no suspicions of her, and was only toopleased to have so charming a companion.
"The one thing that should have made me suspicious was the factthat at every station she made some trivial excuse to get me out ofthe compartment. She pretended that her maid was travelling back ofus in one of the second-class carriages, and kept saying she couldnot imagine why the woman did not come to look after her, and ifthe maid did not turn up at the next stop, would I be so very kindas to get out and bring her whatever it was she pretended shewanted.
"I had taken my dressing-case from the rack to get out a novel,and had left it on the seat opposite to mine, and at the end of thecompartment farthest from her. And once when I came back frombuying her a cup of chocolate, or from some other fool-errand, Ifound her standing at my end of the compartment with both hands onthe dressing-bag. She looked at me without so much as winking aneye, and shoved the case carefully into a corner. 'Your bag slippedoff on the floor,' she said. 'If you've got any bottles in it, youhad better look and see that they're not broken.'
"And I give you my word, I was such an ass that I did open thecase and looked all through it. She must have thought I WAS aJuggins. I get hot all over whenever I remember it. But, in spiteof my dulness, and her cleverness, she couldn't gain anything bysending me away, because what she wanted was in the hand-bag, andevery time she sent me away the hand-bag went with me.
"After the incident of the dressing-case her manner changed.Either in my absence she had had time to look through it, or, whenI was examining it for broken bottles, she had seen everything itheld.
"From that moment she must have been certain that thecigar-case, in which she knew I carried the diamonds, was in thebag that was fastened to my body, and from that time on sheprobably was plotting how to get it from me.
"Her anxiety became most apparent. She dropped the great-ladymanner, and her charming condescension went with it. She ceasedtalking, and, when I spoke, answered me irritably, or at random. Nodoubt her mind was entirely occupied with her plan. The end of ourjourney was drawing rapidly nearer, and her time for action wasbeing cut down with the speed of the express-train. Even I,unsuspicious as I was, noticed that something was very wrong withher. I really believe that before we reached Marseilles if I hadnot, through my own stupidity, given her the chance she wanted, shemight have stuck a knife in me and rolled me out on the rails. Butas it was, I only thought that the long journey had tired her. Isuggested that it was a very trying trip, and asked her if shewould allow me to offer her some of my cognac.
"She thanked me and said, 'No,' and then suddenly her eyeslighted, and she exclaimed, 'Yes, thank you, if you will be sokind.'
"My flask was in the hand-bag, and I placed it on my lap and,with my thumb, slipped back the catch. As I keep my tickets andrailroad- guide in the bag, I am so constantly opening it that Inever bother to lock it, and the fact that it is strapped to me hasalways been sufficient protection. But I can appreciate now what asatisfaction, and what a torment, too, it must have been to thatwoman when she saw that the bag opened without a key.
"While we were crossing the mountains I had felt rather chillyand had been wearing a light racing-coat. But after the lamps werelighted the compartment became very hot and stuffy, and I found thecoat uncomfortable. So I stood up, and after first slipping thestrap of the bag over my head, I placed the bag in the seat next meand pulled off the racing-coat. I don't blame myself for beingcareless; the bag was still within reach of my hand, and nothingwould have happened if at that exact moment the train had notstopped at Arles. It was the combination of my removing the bag andour entering the station at the same instant which gave thePrincess Zichy the chance she wanted to rob me.
"I needn't say that she was clever enough to take it. The trainran into the station at full speed and came to a sudden stop. I hadjust thrown my coat into the rack, and had reached out my hand forthe bag. In another instant I would have had the strap around myshoulder. But at that moment the Princess threw open the door ofthe compartment and beckoned wildly at the people on the platform.'Natalie!' she called, 'Natalie! here I am. Come here! This way!'She turned upon me in the greatest excitement. 'My maid!' shecried. 'She is looking for me. She passed the window without seeingme. Go, please, and bring her back.' She continued pointing out ofthe door and beckoning me with her other hand. There certainly wassomething about that woman's tone which made one jump. When she wasgiving orders you had no chance to think of anything else. So Irushed out on my errand of mercy, and then rushed back again to askwhat the maid looked like.
"'In black,' she answered, rising and blocking the door of thecompartment. 'All in black, with a bonnet!'
"The train waited three minutes at Arles, and in that time Isuppose I must have rushed up to over twenty women and asked, 'Areyou Natalie?' The only reason I wasn't punched with an umbrella orhanded over to the police was that they probably thought I wascrazy.
"When I jumped back into the compartment the Princess was seatedwhere I had left her, but her eyes were burning with happiness. Sheplaced her hand on my arm almost affectionately, and said, in ahysterical way, 'You are very kind to me. I am so sorry to havetroubled you.'
"I protested that every woman on the platform was dressed inblack.
"'Indeed, I am so sorry,' she said, laughing; and she continuedto laugh until she began to breathe so quickly that I thought shewas going to faint.
"I can see now that the last part of that journey must have beena terrible half-hour for her. She had the cigar-case safe enough,but she knew that she herself was not safe. She understood if Iwere to open my bag, even at the last minute, and miss the case, Iwould know positively that she had taken it. I had placed thediamonds in the bag at the very moment she entered the compartment,and no one but our two selves had occupied it since. She knew thatwhen we reached Marseilles she would either be twenty thousandpounds richer than when she left Paris, or that she would go tojail. That was the situation as she must have read it, and I don'tenvy her her state of mind during that last half-hour. It must havebeen hell.
"I saw that something was wrong, and, in my innocence, I evenwondered if possibly my cognac had not been a little too strong.For she suddenly developed into a most brilliant conversationalist,and applauded and laughed at everything I said, and fired offquestions at me like a machine-gun, so that I had no time to thinkof anything but of what she was saying. Whenever I stirred, shestopped her chattering and leaned toward me, and watched me like acat over a mouse-hole. I wondered how I could have considered heran agreeable travelling-companion. I thought I would have preferredto be locked in with a lunatic. I don't like to think how she wouldhave acted if I had made a move to examine the bag, but as I had itsafely strapped around me again, I did not open it, and I reachedMarseilles alive. As we drew into the station she shook hands withme and grinned at me like a Cheshire cat.
"'I cannot tell you,' she said, 'how much I have to thank youfor.' What do you think of that for impudence?
"I offered to put her in a carriage, but she said she must findNatalie, and that she hoped we would meet again at the hotel. So Idrove off by myself, wondering who she was, and whether Natalie wasnot her keeper.
"I had to wait several hours for the train to Nice; and as Iwanted to stroll around the city I thought I had better put thediamonds in the safe of the hotel. As soon as I reached my room Ilocked the door, placed the hand-bag on the table, and opened it. Ifelt among the things at the top of it, but failed to touch thecigar-case. I shoved my hand in deeper, and stirred the thingsabout, but still I did not reach it. A cold wave swept down myspine, and a sort of emptiness came to the pit of my stomach. ThenI turned red-hot, and the sweat sprung out all over me. I wet mylips with my tongue, and said to myself, 'Don't be an ass. Pullyourself together, pull yourself together. Take the things out, oneat a time. It's there, of course, it's there. Don't be an ass.'
"So I put a brake on my nerves and began very carefully to pickout the things, one by one, but, after another second, I could notstand it, and I rushed across the room and threw out everything onthe bed. But the diamonds were not among them. I pulled the thingsabout and tore them open and shuffled and rearranged and sortedthem, but it was no use. The cigar-case was gone. I threweverything in the dressing-case out on the floor, although I knewit was useless to look for it there. I knew that I had put it inthe bag. I sat down and tried to think. I remembered I had put itin the satchel at Paris just as that woman had entered thecompartment, and I had been alone with her ever since, so it wasshe who had robbed me. But how? It had never left my shoulder. Andthen I remembered that it had—that I had taken it off when Ihad changed my coat and for the few moments that I was searchingfor Natalie. I remembered that the woman had sent me on thatgoose-chase, and that at every other station she had tried to getrid of me on some fool-errand.
"I gave a roar like a mad bull, and I jumped down the stairs,six steps at a time.
"I demanded at the office if a distinguished lady of title,possibly a Russian, had just entered the hotel.
"As I expected, she had not. I sprang into a cab and inquired attwo other hotels, and then I saw the folly of trying to catch herwithout outside help, and I ordered the fellow to gallop to theoffice of the Chief of Police. I told my story, and the ass incharge asked me to calm myself, and wanted to take notes. I toldhim this was no time for taking notes, but for doing something. Hegot wrathy at that, and I demanded to be taken at once to hisChief. The Chief, he said, was very busy, and could not see me. SoI showed him my silver greyhound. In eleven years I had never usedit but once before. I stated, in pretty vigorous language, that Iwas a Queen's Messenger, and that if the Chief of Police did notsee me instantly he would lose his official head. At that thefellow jumped off his high horse and ran with me to hisChief—a smart young chap, a colonel in the army, and a veryintelligent man.
"I explained that I had been robbed, in a Frenchrailway-carriage, of a diamond-necklace belonging to the Queen ofEngland, which her Majesty was sending as a present to the Czarinaof Russia. I pointed out to him that if he succeeded in capturingthe thief he would be made for life, and would receive thegratitude of three great powers.
"He wasn't the sort that thinks second thoughts are best. He sawRussian and French decorations sprouting all over his chest, and hehit a bell, and pressed buttons, and yelled out orders like thecaptain of a penny-steamer in a fog. He sent her description to allthe city-gates, and ordered all cabmen and railway-porters tosearch all trains leaving Marseilles. He ordered all passengers onoutgoing vessels to be examined, and telegraphed the proprietors ofevery hotel and pension to send him a complete list of their guestswithin the hour. While I was standing there he must have given atleast a hundred orders, and sent out enough commissaires, sergeantsde ville, gendarmes, bicycle-police, and plain-clothes Johnnies tohave captured the entire German army. When they had gone he assuredme that the woman was as good as arrested already. Indeed,officially, she was arrested; for she had no more chance of escapefrom Marseilles than from the Chateau D'If.
"He told me to return to my hotel and possess my soul in peace.Within an hour he assured me he would acquaint me with herarrest.
"I thanked him, and complimented him on his energy, and lefthim. But I didn't share in his confidence. I felt that she was avery clever woman, and a match for any and all of us. It was allvery well for him to be jubilant. He had not lost the diamonds, andhad everything to gain if he found them; while I, even if he didrecover the necklace, would only be where I was before I lost them,and if he did not recover it I was a ruined man. It was an awfulfacer for me. I had always prided myself on my record. In elevenyears I had never mislaid an envelope, nor missed taking the firsttrain. And now I had failed in the most important mission that hadever been intrusted to me. And it wasn't a thing that could behushed up, either. It was too conspicuous, too spectacular. It wassure to invite the widest notoriety. I saw myself ridiculed allover the Continent, and perhaps dismissed, even suspected of havingtaken the thing myself.
"I was walking in front of a lighted cafe, and I felt so sickand miserable that I stopped for a pick-me-up. Then I consideredthat if I took one drink I would probably, in my present state ofmind, not want to stop under twenty, and I decided I had betterleave it alone. But my nerves were jumping like a frightenedrabbit, and I felt I must have something to quiet them, or I wouldgo crazy. I reached for my cigarette-case, but a cigarette seemedhardly adequate, so I put it back again and took out thiscigar-case, in which I keep only the strongest and blackest cigars.I opened it and stuck in my fingers, but, instead of a cigar, theytouched on a thin leather envelope. My heart stood perfectly still.I did not dare to look, but I dug my finger-nails into the leather,and I felt layers of thin paper, then a layer of cotton, and thenthey scratched on the facets of the Czarina's diamonds!
"I stumbled as though I had been hit in the face, and fell backinto one of the chairs on the sidewalk. I tore off the wrappingsand spread out the diamonds on the cafe-table; I could not believethey were real. I twisted the necklace between my fingers andcrushed it between my palms and tossed it up in the air. I believeI almost kissed it. The women in the cafe stood up on the chairs tosee better, and laughed and screamed, and the people crowded soclose around me that the waiters had to form a body-guard. Theproprietor thought there was a fight, and called for the police. Iwas so happy I didn't care. I laughed, too, and gave the proprietora five-pound note, and told him to stand everyone a drink. Then Itumbled into a fiacre and galloped off to my friend the Chief ofPolice. I felt very sorry for him. He had been so happy at thechance I gave him, and he was sure to be disappointed when helearned I had sent him off on a false alarm.
"But now that I had found the necklace, I did not want him tofind the woman. Indeed, I was most anxious that she should getclear away, for, if she were caught, the truth would come out, andI was likely to get a sharp reprimand, and sure to be laughedat.
"I could see now how it had happened. In my haste to hide thediamonds when the woman was hustled into the carriage, I had shovedthe cigars into the satchel, and the diamonds into the pocket of mycoat. Now that I had the diamonds safe again, it seemed a verynatural mistake. But I doubted if the Foreign Office would thinkso. I was afraid it might not appreciate the beautiful simplicityof my secret hiding-place. So, when I reached the police-station,and found that the woman was still at large, I was more thanrelieved.
"As I expected, the Chief was extremely chagrined when helearned of my mistake, and that there was nothing for him to do.But I was feeling so happy myself that I hated to have anyone elsemiserable, so I suggested that this attempt to steal the Czarina'snecklace might be only the first of a series of such attempts by anunscrupulous gang, and that I might still be in danger.
"I winked at the Chief, and the Chief smiled at me, and we wentto Nice together in a saloon-car with a guard of twelve carabineersand twelve plain-clothes men, and the Chief and I drank champagneall the way. We marched together up to the hotel where the RussianAmbassador was stopping, closely surrounded by our escort ofcarabineers, and delivered the necklace with the most profoundceremony. The old Ambassador was immensely impressed, and when wehinted that already I had been made the object of an attack byrobbers, he assured us that his Imperial Majesty would not proveungrateful.
"I wrote a swinging personal letter about the invaluableservices of the Chief to the French Minister of Foreign Affairs,and they gave him enough Russian and French medals to satisfy evena French soldier. So, though he never caught the woman, he receivedhis just reward."
The Queen's Messenger paused and surveyed the faces of thoseabout him in some embarrassment.
"But the worst of it is," he added, "that the story must havegot about; for, while the Princess obtained nothing from me but acigar- case and five excellent cigars, a few weeks after thecoronation the Czar sent me a gold cigar-case with his monogram indiamonds. And I don't know yet whether that was a coincidence, orwhether the Czar wanted me to know that he knew that I had beencarrying the Czarina's diamonds in my pig-skin cigar-case. What doyou fellows think?"
Sir Andrew rose, with disapproval written in everylineament.
"I thought your story would bear upon the murder," he said. "HadI imagined it would have nothing whatsoever to do with it, I wouldnot have remained." He pushed back his chair and bowed, stiffly. "Iwish you good night," he said.
There was a chorus of remonstrance, and, under cover of this andthe Baronet's answering protests, a servant, for the second time,slipped a piece of paper into the hand of the gentleman with thepearl stud. He read the lines written upon it and tore it into tinyfragments.
The youngest member, who had remained an interested but silentlistener to the tale of the Queen's Messenger, raised his hand,commandingly.
"Sir Andrew," he cried, "in justice to Lord Arthur Chetney, Imust ask you to be seated. He has been accused in our hearing of amost serious crime, and I insist that you remain until you haveheard me clear his character."
"You!" cried the Baronet.
"Yes," answered the young man, briskly. "I would have spokensooner," he explained, "but that I thought this gentleman"—heinclined his head toward the Queen's Messenger—"was about tocontribute some facts of which I was ignorant. He, however, hastold us nothing, and so I will take up the tale at the point whereLieutenant Sears laid it down and give you those details of whichLieutenant Sears is ignorant. It seems strange to you that I shouldbe able to add the sequel to this story. But the coincidence iseasily explained. I am the junior member of the law firm ofChudleigh Chudleigh. We have been solicitors for the Chetneys forthe last two hundred years. Nothing, no matter how unimportant,which concerns Lord Edam and his two sons is unknown to us, andnaturally we are acquainted with every detail of the terriblecatastrophe of last night."
The Baronet, bewildered but eager, sank back into his chair.
"Will you be long, sir?" he demanded.
"I shall endeavor to be brief," said the young solicitor; "and,"he added, in a tone which gave his words almost the weight of athreat, "I promise to be interesting."
"There is no need to promise that," said Sir Andrew, "I find itmuch too interesting as it is." He glanced ruefully at the clockand turned his eyes quickly from it.
"Tell the driver of that hansom," he called to the servant,"that I take him by the hour."
"For the last three days," began young Mr. Chudleigh, "as youhave probably read in the daily papers, the Marquis of Edam hasbeen at the point of death, and his physicians have never left hishouse. Every hour he seemed to grow weaker; but although his bodilystrength is apparently leaving him forever, his mind has remainedclear and active. Late yesterday evening, word was received at ouroffice that he wished my father to come at once to Chetney Houseand to bring with him certain papers. What these papers were is notessential; I mention them only to explain how it was that lastnight I happened to be at Lord Edam's bedside. I accompanied myfather to Chetney House, but at the time we reached there Lord Edamwas sleeping, and his physicians refused to have him awakened. Myfather urged that he should be allowed to receive Lord Edam'sinstructions concerning the documents, but the physicians would notdisturb him, and we all gathered in the library to wait until heshould awake of his own accord. It was about one o'clock in themorning, while we were still there, that Inspector Lyle and theofficers from Scotland Yard came to arrest Lord Arthur on thecharge of murdering his brother. You can imagine our dismay anddistress. Like everyone else, I had learned from the afternoonpapers that Lord Chetney was not dead, but that he had returned toEngland, and, on arriving at Chetney House, I had been told thatLord Arthur had gone to the Bath Hotel to look for his brother andto inform him that if he wished to see their father alive he mustcome to him at once. Although it was now past one o'clock, Arthurhad not returned. None of us knew where Madame Zichy lived, so wecould not go to recover Lord Chetney's body. We spent a mostmiserable night, hastening to the window whenever a cab came intothe square, in the hope that it was Arthur returning, andendeavoring to explain away the facts that pointed to him as themurderer. I am a friend of Arthur's, I was with him at Harrow andat Oxford, and I refused to believe for an instant that he wascapable of such a crime; but as a lawyer I could not help but seethat the circumstantial evidence was strongly against him.
"Toward early morning, Lord Edam awoke, and in so much better astate of health that he refused to make the changes in the paperswhich he had intended, declaring that he was no nearer death thanourselves. Under other circumstances, this happy change in himwould have relieved us greatly, but none of us could think ofanything save the death of his elder son and of the charge whichhung over Arthur.
"As long as Inspector Lyle remained in the house, my fatherdecided that I, as one of the legal advisers of the family, shouldalso remain there. But there was little for either of us to do.Arthur did not return, and nothing occurred until late thismorning, when Lyle received word that the Russian servant had beenarrested. He at once drove to Scotland Yard to question him. Hecame back to us in an hour, and informed me that the servant hadrefused to tell anything of what had happened the night before, orof himself, or of the Princess Zichy. He would not even give themthe address of her house.
"'He is in abject terror,' Lyle said. 'I assured him that he wasnot suspected of the crime, but he would tell me nothing.'
"There were no other developments until two o'clock thisafternoon, when word was brought to us that Arthur had been found,and that he was lying in the accident-ward of St. George'sHospital. Lyle and I drove there together, and found him propped upin bed with his head bound in a bandage. He had been brought to thehospital the night before by the driver of a hansom that had runover him in the fog. The cab-horse had kicked him on the head, andhe had been carried in unconscious. There was nothing on him totell who he was, and it was not until he came to his senses thisafternoon that the hospital authorities had been able to send wordto his people. Lyle at once informed him that he was under arrest,and with what he was charged, and though the Inspector warned himto say nothing which might be used against him, I, as hissolicitor, instructed him to speak freely and to tell us all heknew of the occurrences of last night. It was evident to anyonethat the fact of his brother's death was of much greater concern tohim than that he was accused of his murder.
"'That,' Arthur said, contemptuously, 'that is damned nonsense.It is monstrous and cruel. We parted better friends than we havebeen in years. I will tell you all that happened—not to clearmyself, but to help you to find out the truth.' His story is asfollows: Yesterday afternoon, owing to his constant attendance onhis father, he did not look at the evening papers, and it was notuntil after dinner, when the butler brought him one and told him ofits contents, that he learned that his brother was alive and at theBath Hotel. He drove there at once, but was told that about eighto'clock his brother had gone out, but without giving any clew tohis destination. As Chetney had not at once come to see his father,Arthur decided that he was still angry with him, and his mind,turning naturally to the cause of their quarrel, determined him tolook for Chetney at the home of the Princess Zichy.
"Her house had been pointed out to him, and though he had nevervisited it, he had passed it many times and knew its exactlocation. He accordingly drove in that direction, as far as the fogwould permit the hansom to go, and walked the rest of the way,reaching the house about nine o'clock. He rang, and was admitted bythe Russian servant. The man took his card into the drawing-room,and at once his brother ran out and welcomed him. He was followedby the Princess Zichy, who also received Arthur most cordially.
"'You brothers will have much to talk about,' she said. 'I amgoing to the dining-room. When you have finished, let me know.'
"As soon as she had left them, Arthur told his brother thattheir father was not expected to outlive the night, and that hemust come to him at once.
"'This is not the moment to remember your quarrel,' Arthur saidto him; 'you have come back from the dead only in time to make yourpeace with him before he dies.'
"Arthur says that at this Chetney was greatly moved.
"'You entirely misunderstand me, Arthur,' he returned. 'I didnot know the governor was ill, or I would have gone to him theinstant I arrived. My only reason for not doing so was because Ithought he was still angry with me. I shall return with youimmediately, as soon as I have said good-by to the Princess. It isa final good-by. After to- night I shall never see her again.'
"'Do you mean that?' Arthur cried.
"'Yes,' Chetney answered. 'When I returned to London I had nointention of seeking her again, and I am here only through amistake.' He then told Arthur that he had separated from thePrincess even before he went to Central Africa, and that, moreover,while at Cairo on his way south, he had learned certain factsconcerning her life there during the previous season, which made itimpossible for him to ever wish to see her again. Their separationwas final and complete.
"'She deceived me cruelly,' he said; 'I cannot tell you howcruelly. During the two years when I was trying to obtain myfather's consent to our marriage she was in love with a Russiandiplomat. During all that time he was secretly visiting her here inLondon, and her trip to Cairo was only an excuse to meet himthere.'
"'Yet you are here with her to-night,' Arthur protested, 'only afew hours after your return.'
"'That is easily explained,' Chetney answered. 'As I finisheddinner to-night at the hotel, I received a note from her from thisaddress. In it she said she had just learned of my arrival, andbegged me to come to her at once. She wrote that she was in greatand present trouble, dying of an incurable illness, and withoutfriends or money. She begged me, for the sake of old times, to cometo her assistance. During the last two years in the jungle all myformer feeling for Zichy has utterly passed away, but no one couldhave dismissed the appeal she made in that letter. So I came here,and found her, as you have seen her, quite as beautiful as she everwas, in very good health, and, from the look of the house, in noneed of money.
"'I asked her what she meant by writing me that she was dying ina garret, and she laughed, and said she had done so because she wasafraid, unless I thought she needed help, I would not try to seeher. That was where we were when you arrived. And now,' Chetneyadded, 'I will say good-by to her, and you had better return home.No, you can trust me, I shall follow you at once. She has noinfluence over me now, but I believe, in spite of the way she hasused me, that she is, after her queer fashion, still fond of me,and when she learns that this good-by is final there may be ascene, and it is not fair to her that you should be here. So, gohome at once, and tell the governor that I am following you in tenminutes.'
"'That,' said Arthur, 'is the way we parted. I never left him onmore friendly terms. I was happy to see him alive again, I washappy to think he had returned in time to make up his quarrel withmy father, and I was happy that at last he was shut of that woman.I was never better pleased with him in my life.' He turned toInspector Lyle, who was sitting at the foot of the bed, takingnotes of all he told us.
"'Why, in the name of common-sense,' he cried, 'should I havechosen that moment, of all others, to send my brother back to thegrave?' For a moment the Inspector did not answer him. I do notknow if any of you gentlemen are acquainted with Inspector Lyle,but if you are not, I can assure you that he is a very remarkableman. Our firm often applies to him for aid, and he has never failedus; my father has the greatest possible respect for him. Where hehas the advantage over the ordinary police-official is in the factthat he possesses imagination. He imagines himself to be thecriminal, imagines how he would act under the same circumstances,and he imagines to such purpose that he generally finds the man hewants. I have often told Lyle that if he had not been a detectivehe would have made a great success as a poet or a playwright.
"When Arthur turned on him, Lyle hesitated for a moment, andthen told him exactly what was the case against him,
"'Ever since your brother was reported as having died inAfrica,' he said, 'your lordship has been collecting money onpost-obits. Lord Chetney's arrival, last night, turned them intowaste-paper. You were suddenly in debt for thousands ofpounds—for much more than you could ever possibly pay. No oneknew that you and your brother had met at Madame Zichy's. But youknew that your father was not expected to outlive the night, andthat if your brother were dead also, you would be saved fromcomplete ruin, and that you would become the Marquis of Edam.'
"'Oh, that is how you have worked it out, is it?' Arthur cried.'And for me to become Lord Edam was it necessary that the womanshould die, too?'
"'They will say,' Lyle answered, 'that she was a witness to themurder—that she would have told.'
"'Then why did I not kill the servant as well?' Arthur said.
"'He was asleep, and saw nothing.'
"'And you believe that?' Arthur demanded.
"'It is not a question of what I believe,' Lyle said, gravely.'It is a question for your peers.'
"'The man is insolent!' Arthur cried. 'The thing is monstrous!Horrible!'
"Before we could stop him, he sprang out of his cot and beganpulling on his clothes. When the nurses tried to hold him down, hefought with them.
"'Do you think you can keep me here,' he shouted, 'when they areplotting to hang me? I am going with you to that house!' he criedat Lyle. 'When you find those bodies I shall be beside you. It ismy right. He is my brother. He has been murdered, and I can tellyou who murdered him. That woman murdered him.'
'She first ruined his life, and now she has killed him. For thelast five years she has been plotting to make herself his wife, andlast night, when he told her he had discovered the truth about theRussian, and that she would never see him again, she flew into apassion and stabbed him, and then in terror of the gallows, killedherself. She murdered him, I tell you, and I promise you that wewill find the knife she used near her—perhaps still in herhand. What will you say to that?'
"Lyle turned his head away and stared down at the floor. 'Imight say,' he answered, 'that you placed it there.'
"Arthur gave a cry of anger and sprang at him, and then pitchedforward into his arms. The blood was running from the cut under thebandage, and he had fainted. Lyle carried him back to the bedagain, and we left him with the police and the doctors, and droveat once to the address he had given us. We found the house notthree minutes' walk from St. George's Hospital. It stands in TrevorTerrace, that little row of houses set back from Knightsbridge,with one end in Hill Street.
"As we left the hospital, Lyle had said to me, 'You must notblame me for treating him as I did. All is fair in this work, andif by angering that boy I could have made him commit himself, I wasright in trying to do so; though, I assure you, no one would bebetter pleased than myself if I could prove his theory to becorrect. But we cannot tell. Everything depends upon what we seefor ourselves within the next few minutes.'
"When we reached the house, Lyle broke open the fastenings ofone of the windows on the ground-floor, and, hidden by the trees inthe garden, we scrambled in. We found ourselves in thereception-room, which was the first room on the right of the hall.The gas was still burning behind the colored glass and red, silkshades, and when the daylight streamed in after us it gave the halla hideously dissipated look, like the foyer of a theatre at amatinee, or the entrance to an all-day gambling-hall. The house wasoppressively silent, and, because we knew why it was so silent, wespoke in whispers. When Lyle turned the handle of the drawing-roomdoor, I felt as though someone had put his hand upon my throat. ButI followed, close at his shoulder, and saw, in the subdued light ofmany-tinted lamps, the body of Chetney at the foot of the divan,just as Lieutenant Sears had described it. In the drawing-room wefound the body of the Princess Zichy, her arms thrown out, and theblood from her heart frozen in a tiny line across her bareshoulder. But neither of us, although we searched the floor on ourhands and knees, could find the weapon which had killed her.
"'For Arthur's sake,' I said, 'I would have given a thousandpounds if we had found the knife in her hand, as he said wewould.'
"'That we have not found it there,' Lyle answered, 'is to mymind the strongest proof that he is telling the truth, that he leftthe house before the murder took place. He is not a fool, and hadhe stabbed his brother and this woman, he would have seen that byplacing the knife near her he could help to make it appear as ifshe had killed Chetney and then committed suicide. Besides, LordArthur insisted that the evidence in his behalf would be ourfinding the knife here. He would not have urged that if he knew wewould NOT find it, if he knew he himself had carried it away. Thisis no suicide. A suicide does not rise and hide the weapon withwhich he kills himself, and then lie down again. No, this has beena double murder, and we must look outside of the house for themurderer.'
"While he was speaking, Lyle and I had been searching everycorner, studying the details of each room. I was so afraid that,without telling me, he would make some deductions prejudicial toArthur, that I never left his side. I was determined to seeeverything that he saw, and, if possible, to prevent hisinterpreting it in the wrong way. He finally finished hisexamination, and we sat down together in the drawing-room, and hetook out his note-book and read aloud all that Mr. Sears had toldhim of the murder and what we had just learned from Arthur. Wecompared the two accounts, word for word, and weighed statementwith statement, but I could not determine, from anything Lyle said,which of the two versions he had decided to believe.
"'We are trying to build a house of blocks,' he exclaimed, 'withhalf of the blocks missing. We have been considering two theories,'he went on: 'one that Lord Arthur is responsible for both murders,and the other that the dead woman in there is responsible for oneof them, and has committed suicide; but, until the Russian servantis ready to talk, I shall refuse to believe in the guilt ofeither.'
"'What can you prove by him?' I asked. 'He was drunk and asleep.He saw nothing.'
"Lyle hesitated, and then, as though he had made up his mind tobe quite frank with me, spoke freely.
"'I do not know that he was either drunk or asleep,' heanswered. 'Lieutenant Sears describes him as a stupid boor. I amnot satisfied that he is not a clever actor. What was his positionin this house? What was his real duty here? Suppose it was not toguard this woman, but to watch her. Let us imagine that it was notthe woman he served, but a master, and see where that leads us. Forthis house has a master, a mysterious, absentee landlord, who livesin St. Petersburg, the unknown Russian who came between Chetney andZichy, and because of whom Chetney left her. He is the man whobought this house for Madame Zichy, who sent these rugs andcurtains from St. Petersburg to furnish it for her after his owntastes, and, I believe, it was he also who placed the Russianservant here, ostensibly to serve the Princess, but in reality tospy upon her. At Scotland Yard we do not know who this gentlemanis; the Russian police confess to equal ignorance concerning him.When Lord Chetney went to Africa, Madame Zichy lived in St.Petersburg; but there her receptions and dinners were so crowdedwith members of the nobility and of the army and diplomats, that,among so many visitors, the police could not learn which was theone for whom she most greatly cared.'
"Lyle pointed at the modern French paintings and the heavy, silkrugs which hung upon the walls.
"'The unknown is a man of taste and of some fortune,' he said,'not the sort of man to send a stupid peasant to guard the woman heloves. So I am not content to believe, with Mr. Sears, that theservant is a boor. I believe him, instead, to be a very cleverruffian. I believe him to be the protector of his master's honor,or, let us say, of his master's property, whether that property besilver plate or the woman his master loves. Last night, after LordArthur had gone away, the servant was left alone in this house withLord Chetney and Madame Zichy. From where he sat in the hall, hecould hear Lord Chetney bidding her farewell; for, if my idea ofhim is correct, he understands English quite as well as you or I.Let us imagine that he heard her entreating Chetney not to leaveher, reminding him of his former wish to marry her, and let ussuppose that he hears Chetney denounce her, and tell her that atCairo he has learned of this Russian admirer—the servant'smaster. He hears the woman declare that she has had no admirer buthimself, that this unknown Russian was, and is, nothing to her,that there is no man she loves but him, and that she cannot live,knowing that he is alive, without his love. Suppose Chetneybelieved her, suppose his former infatuation for her returned, andthat, in a moment of weakness, he forgave her and took her in hisarms. That is the moment the Russian master has feared. It is toguard against it that he has placed his watch-dog over thePrincess, and how do we know but that, when the moment came, thewatch-dog served his master, as he saw his duty, and killed themboth? What do you think?' Lyle demanded. 'Would not that explainboth murders?'
"I was only too willing to hear any theory which pointed toanyone else as the criminal than Arthur, but Lyle's explanation wastoo utterly fantastic. I told him that he certainly showedimagination, but that he could not hang a man for what he imaginedhe had done.
"'No,' Lyle answered, 'but I can frighten him by telling himwhat I think he has done, and now when I again question the Russianservant I will make it quite clear to him that I believe he is themurderer. I think that will open his mouth. A man will at leasttalk to defend himself. Come,' he said, 'we must return at once toScotland Yard and see him. There is nothing more to do here.'
"He arose, and I followed him into the hall, and in anotherminute we would have been on our way to Scotland Yard. But just ashe opened the street-door a postman halted at the gate of thegarden, and began fumbling with the latch.
"Lyle stopped, with an exclamation of chagrin.
"'How stupid of me!' he exclaimed. He turned quickly and pointedto a narrow slit cut in the brass plate of the front door. 'Thehouse has a private letter-box,' he said, 'and I had not thought tolook in it! If we had gone out as we came in, by the window, Iwould never have seen it. The moment I entered the house I shouldhave thought of securing the letters which came this morning. Ihave been grossly careless.' He stepped back into the hall andpulled at the lid of the letter-box, which hung on the inside ofthe door, but it was tightly locked. At the same moment the postmancame up the steps holding a letter. Without a word, Lyle took itfrom his hand and began to examine it. It was addressed to thePrincess Zichy, and on the back of the envelope was the name of aWest End dressmaker.
"'That is of no use to me,' Lyle said. He took out his card andshowed it to the postman. 'I am Inspector Lyle from Scotland Yard,'he said. 'The people in this house are under arrest. Everything itcontains is now in my keeping. Did you deliver any other lettershere this morning?'
"The man looked frightened, but answered, promptly, that he wasnow upon his third round. He had made one postal delivery at seventhat morning and another at eleven.
"'How many letters did you leave here?' Lyle asked.
"'About six altogether,' the man answered.
"'Did you put them through the door into the letter-box?'
"The postman said, 'Yes, I always slip them into the box, andring and go away. The servants collect them from the inside.'
"'Have you noticed if any of the letters you leave here bear aRussian postage-stamp?' Lyle asked.
"'The man answered, 'Oh, yes, sir, a great many.'
"'From the same person, would you say?'
"'The writing seems to be the same,' the man answered. 'Theycome regularly about once a week—one of those I deliveredthis morning had a Russian postmark.'
"'That will do,' said Lyle, eagerly. 'Thank you, thank you verymuch.'
"He ran back into the hall, and, pulling out his penknife, beganto pick at the lock of the letter-box.
"'I have been supremely careless,' he said, in great excitement.'Twice before when people I wanted had flown from a house I havebeen able to follow them by putting a guard over their mailbox.These letters, which arrive regularly every week from Russia in thesame handwriting, they can come but from one person. At least, weshall now know the name of the master of this house. Undoubtedly,it is one of his letters that the man placed here this morning. Wemay make a most important discovery.'
"As he was talking he was picking at the lock with his knife,but he was so impatient to reach the letters that he pressed tooheavily on the blade and it broke in his hand. I took a stepbackward and drove my heel into the lock, and burst it open. Thelid flew back, and we pressed forward, and each ran his hand downinto the letter-box. For a moment we were both too startled tomove. The box was empty.
"I do not know how long we stood, staring stupidly at eachother, but it was Lyle who was the first to recover. He seized meby the arm and pointed excitedly into the empty box.
"'Do you appreciate what that means?' he cried. 'It means thatsomeone has been here ahead of us. Someone has entered this housenot three hours before we came, since eleven o'clock thismorning.'
"'It was the Russian servant!' I exclaimed.
"'The Russian servant has been under arrest at Scotland Yard,'Lyle cried. 'He could not have taken the letters. Lord Arthur hasbeen in his cot at the hospital. That is his alibi. There issomeone else, someone we do not suspect. and that someone is themurderer. He came back here either to obtain those letters becausehe knew they would convict him, or to remove something he had lefthere at the time of the murder, something incriminating—theweapon, perhaps, or some personal article; a cigarette-case, ahandkerchief with his name upon it, or a pair of gloves. Whateverit was, it must have been damning evidence against him to have madehim take so desperate a chance.'
"'How do we know,' I whispered, 'that he is not hidden herenow?'
"'No, I'll swear he is not,' Lyle answered. 'I may have bungledin some things, but I have searched this house thoroughly.Nevertheless,' he added, 'we must go over it again, from the cellarto the roof. We have the real clew now, and we must forget theothers and work only it.' As he spoke he began again to search thedrawing- room, turning over even the books on the tables and themusic on the piano.
"'Whoever the man is,' he said, over his shoulder, 'we know thathe has a key to the front door and a key to the letter-box. Thatshows us he is either an inmate of the house or that he comes herewhen he wishes. The Russian says that he was the only servant inthe house. Certainly, we have found no evidence to show that anyother servant slept here. There could be but one other person whowould possess a key to the house and the letter-box—and helives in St. Petersburg. At the time of the murder he was twothousand miles away.' Lyle interrupted himself, suddenly, with asharp cry, and turned upon me, with his eyes flashing. 'But washe?' he cried. 'Was he? How do we know that last night he was notin London, in this very house when Zichy and Chetney met?'
"He stood, staring at me without seeing me, muttering, andarguing with himself.
"'Don't speak to me,' he cried, as I ventured to interrupt him.'I can see it now. It is all plain. It was not the servant, but hismaster, the Russian himself, and it was he who came back for theletters! He came back for them because he knew they would convicthim. We must find them. We must have those letters. If we find theone with the Russian postmark, we shall have found the murderer.'He spoke like a madman, and as he spoke he ran around the room,with one hand held out in front of him as you have seen amind-reader at a theatre seeking for something hidden in thestalls. He pulled the old letters from the writing-desk, and ranthem over as swiftly as a gambler deals out cards; he dropped onhis knees before the fireplace and dragged out the dead coals withhis bare fingers, and then, with a low, worried cry, like a houndon a scent, he ran back to the waste-paper basket and, lifting thepapers from it, shook them out upon the floor. Instantly, he gave ashout of triumph, and, separating a number of torn pieces from theothers, held them up before me.
"'Look!' he cried. 'Do you see? Here are five letters, tornacross in two places. The Russian did not stop to read them, for,as you see, he has left them still sealed. I have been wrong. Hedid not return for the letters. He could not have known theirvalue. He must have returned for some other reason, and, as he wasleaving, saw the letter-box, and, taking out the letters, held themtogether—so—and tore them twice across, and then, asthe fire had gone out, tossed them into this basket. Look!' hecried, 'here in the upper corner of this piece is a Russian stamp.This is his own letter—unopened!'
"We examined the Russian stamp and found it had been cancelledin St. Petersburg four days ago. The back of the envelope bore thepostmark of the branch-station in upper Sloane Street, and wasdated this morning. The envelope was of official, blue paper, andwe had no difficulty in finding the other two parts of it. We drewthe torn pieces of the letter from them and joined them together,side by side. There were but two lines of writing, and this was themessage: 'I leave Petersburg on the night-train, and I shall seeyou at Trevor Terrace, after dinner, Monday evening.'
"'That was last night!' Lyle cried. 'He arrived twelve hoursahead of his letter—but it came in time—it came in timeto hang him!'"
The Baronet struck the table with his hand.
"The name!" he demanded. "How was it signed? What was the man'sname?"
The young Solicitor rose to his feet and, leaning forward,stretched out his arm. "There was no name," he cried. "The letterwas signed with only two initials. But engraved at the top of thesheet was the man's address. That address was 'THE AMERICANEMBASSY, ST. PETERSBURG, BUREAU OF THE NAVAL ATTACHE,' and theinitials," he shouted, his voice rising into an exultant and bittercry, "were those of the gentleman who sits opposite who told usthat he was the first to find the murdered bodies, the NavalAttache to Russia, Lieutenant Sears!"
A strained and awful hush followed the Solicitor's words, whichseemed to vibrate like a twanging bowstring that had just hurledits bolt. Sir Andrew, pale and staring, drew away, with anexclamation of repulsion. His eyes were fastened upon the NavalAttache with fascinated horror. But the American emitted a sigh ofgreat content, and sank, comfortably, into the arms of his chair.He clapped his hands, softly, together.
"Capital!" he murmured. "I give you my word I never guessed whatyou were driving at. You fooled ME, I'll be hanged if youdidn't—you certainly fooled me."
The man with the pearl stud leaned forward, with a nervousgesture. "Hush! be careful!" he whispered. But at that instant, forthe third time, a servant, hastening through the room, handed him apiece of paper which he scanned eagerly. The message on the paperread, "The light over the Commons is out. The House has risen."
The man with the black pearl gave a mighty shout, and tossed thepaper from him upon the table.
"Hurrah!" he cried. "The House is up! We've won!" He caught uphis glass, and slapped the Naval Attache, violently, upon theshoulder. He nodded joyously at him, at the Solicitor, and at theQueen's Messenger. "Gentlemen, to you!" he cried; "my thanks and mycongratulations!" He drank deep from the glass, and breathed fortha long sigh of satisfaction and relief.
"But I say," protested the Queen's Messenger, shaking hisfinger, violently, at the Solicitor, "that story won't do. Youdidn't play fair—and—and you talked so fast I couldn'tmake out what it was all about. I'll bet you that evidence wouldn'thold in a court of law— you couldn't hang a cat on suchevidence. Your story is condemned tommy-rot. Now, my story mighthave happened, my story bore the mark- -"
In the joy of creation, the story-tellers had forgotten theiraudience, until a sudden exclamation from Sir Andrew caused them toturn, guiltily, toward him. His face was knit with lines of anger,doubt, and amazement.
"What does this mean?" he cried. "Is this a jest, or are youmad? If you know this man is a murderer, why is he at large? Isthis a game you have been playing? Explain yourselves at once. Whatdoes it mean?"
The American, with first a glance at the others, rose and bowed,courteously.
"I am not a murderer, Sir Andrew, believe me," he said; "youneed not be alarmed. As a matter of fact, at this moment I am muchmore afraid of you than you could possibly be of me. I beg you,please to be indulgent. I assure you, we meant no disrespect. Wehave been matching stories, that is all, pretending that we arepeople we are not, endeavoring to entertain you with betterdetective-tales than, for instance, the last one you read, 'TheGreat Rand Robbery.'"
The Baronet brushed his hand, nervously, across hisforehead.
"Do you mean to tell me," he exclaimed, "that none of this hashappened? That Lord Chetney is not dead, that his Solicitor did notfind a letter of yours, written from your post in Petersburg, andthat just now, when he charged you with murder, he was injest?"
"I am really very sorry," said the American, "but you see, sir,he could not have found a letter written by me in St. Petersburgbecause I have never been in Petersburg. Until this week, I havenever been outside of my own country. I am not a naval officer. Iam a writer of short stories. And to-night, when this gentlemantold me that you were fond of detective-stories, I thought it wouldbe amusing to tell you one of my own—one I had just mappedout this afternoon."
"But Lord Chetney IS a real person," interrupted the Baronet,"and he did go to Africa two years ago, and he was supposed to havedied there, and his brother, Lord Arthur, has been the heir. Andyesterday Chetney did return. I read it in the papers."
"So did I," assented the American, soothingly; "and it struck meas being a very good plot for a story. I mean his unexpected returnfrom the dead, and the probable disappointment of the youngerbrother. So I decided that the younger brother had better murderthe older one. The Princess Zichy I invented out of a clear sky.The fog I did not have to invent. Since last night I know all thatthere is to know about a London fog. I was lost in one for threehours."
The Baronet turned, grimly, upon the Queen's Messenger.
"But this gentleman," he protested, "he is not a writer of shortstories; he is a member of the Foreign Office. I have often seenhim in Whitehall, and, according to him, the Princess Zichy is notan invention. He says she is very well known, that she tried to robhim."
The servant of the Foreign Office looked, unhappily, at theCabinet Minister, and puffed, nervously, on his cigar.
"It's true, Sir Andrew, that I am a Queen's Messenger," he said,appealingly, "and a Russian woman once did try to rob a Queen'sMessenger in a railway carriage—only it did not happen to me,but to a pal of mine. The only Russian princess I ever knew calledherself Zabrisky. You may have seen her. She used to do a dive fromthe roof of the Aquarium."
Sir Andrew, with a snort of indignation, fronted the youngSolicitor.
"And I suppose yours was a cock-and-bull story, too," he said."Of course, it must have been, since Lord Chetney is not dead. Butdon't tell me," he protested, "that you are not Chudleigh's soneither."
"I'm sorry," said the youngest member, smiling, in someembarrassment, "but my name is not Chudleigh. I assure you, though,that I know the family very well, and that I am on very good termswith them."
"You should be!" exclaimed the Baronet; "and, judging from theliberties you take with the Chetneys, you had better be on verygood terms with them, too."
The young man leaned back and glanced toward the servants at thefar end of the room.
"It has been so long since I have been in the Club," he said,"that I doubt if even the waiters remember me. Perhaps Joseph may,"he added. "Joseph!" he called, and at the word a servant steppedbriskly forward.
The young man pointed to the stuffed head of a great lion whichwas suspended above the fireplace.
"Joseph," he said, "I want you to tell these gentlemen who shotthat lion. Who presented it to the Grill?"
Joseph, unused to acting as master of ceremonies to members ofthe Club, shifted, nervously, from one foot to the other.
"Why, you—you did," he stammered.
"Of course I did!" exclaimed the young man. "I mean, what is thename of the man who shot it? Tell the gentlemen who I am. Theywouldn't believe me."
"Who you are, my lord?" said Joseph. "You are Lord Edam's son,the Earl of Chetney."
"You must admit," said Lord Chetney, when the noise had diedaway, "that I couldn't remain dead while my little brother wasaccused of murder. I had to do something. Family pride demanded it.Now, Arthur, as the younger brother, can't afford to be squeamish,but, personally, I should hate to have a brother of mine hanged formurder."
"You certainly showed no scruples against hanging me," said theAmerican, "but, in the face of your evidence, I admit my guilt, andI sentence myself to pay the full penalty of the law as we are madeto pay it in my own country. The order of this court is," heannounced, "that Joseph shall bring me a wine-card, and that I signit for five bottles of the Club's best champagne."
"Oh, no!" protested the man with the pearl stud, "it is not forYOU to sign it. In my opinion, it is Sir Andrew who should pay thecosts. It is time you knew," he said, turning to that gentleman,"that, unconsciously, you have been the victim of what I may call apatriotic conspiracy. These stories have had a more serious purposethan merely to amuse. They have been told with the worthy object ofdetaining you from the House of Commons. I must explain to youthat, all through this evening, I have had a servant waiting inTrafalgar Square with instructions to bring me word as soon as thelight over the House of Commons had ceased to burn. The light isnow out, and the object for which we plotted is attained."
The Baronet glanced, keenly, at the man with the black pearl,and then, quickly, at his watch. The smile disappeared from hislips, and his face was set in stern and forbidding lines.
"And may I know," he asked, icily, "what was the object of yourplot?"
"A most worthy one," the other retorted. "Our object was to keepyou from advocating the expenditure of many millions of thepeople's money upon more battle-ships. In a word, we have beenworking together to prevent you from passing the Navy IncreaseBill."
Sir Andrew's face bloomed with brilliant color. His body shookwith suppressed emotion.
"My dear sir!" he cried, "you should spend more time at theHouse and less at your Club. The Navy Bill was brought up on itsthird reading at eight o'clock this evening. I spoke for threehours in its favor. My only reason for wishing to return again tothe House to-night was to sup on the terrace with my old friend,Admiral Simons; for my work at the House was completed five hoursago, when the Navy Increase Bill was passed by an overwhelmingmajority."
The Baronet rose and bowed. "I have to thank you, sir," he said,"for a most interesting evening."
The American shoved the wine-card which Joseph had given himtoward the gentleman with the black pearl.
"You sign it," he said.
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