Part 8
It was now Van Gilder's turn to be puzzled. Nay, more; he was interested. Here was a man wretched, destitute, in the clutches of poverty, yet he said that not for a thousand dollars would he part with a mere useless dog. _Could_ he mean it? Could a dog mean that much to any one? Or was he merely speaking in hyperbole? The question held Van Gilder. A thousand dollars. What would he do if actually offered a thousand dollars? This was research along a new line, but Van Gilder was determined to find out. A trip to the bank, and he returned with ten one-hundred-dollar bills.
"You say you wouldn't sell that cur for a thousand dollars?"
"Not for a thousand dollars--would I, Patches?"
"Y' sure? Here's a thousand dollars. Can I take the dog?"
The sad, drawn face looked at the ten crisp golden bills as if in a trance, but never for a moment did the owner waver.
"No, not for a thousand. Patches and I have seen better days, comrades we've been for years; he is as loyal to me to-day as ever, and we'll not part till death does it. I could not sell my best friend, could I, Patches? All the rest have left me, but _you_ have never once complained, have you, old fellow? No, my friend, I'm pretty low, but I'll never be as low as that. I thank you for the offer, but I can't accept."
Van Gilder, a puzzled, thoughtful man, got into his car and drove off. But not to the laboratories. Like Saul on the road to Damascus, a new light had burst upon him.
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THE ARM AT GRAVELOTTE
By William Almon Wolff
He was an old man, with snow-white hair and a patriarch's beard. One sleeve of his coat was empty. He had lived in the village for many years--since five years after the great war, men said. He had prospered; when the new war of 1914 broke out he was the largest landholder for miles around.
It was not far from the French border, this village of which Hans Schmidt was patriarch. It had no railway station, but a line of rail came to it and ended in long platforms in open fields. Twice, of late years, trains had rolled up beside those platforms, discharging soldiers of the Fatherland, engaged in manœuvres. Now, in the first week of August, there was real use for the platforms. For three days trains rolled up in a never-ending procession, discharging their living freight of men in a misty, gray-green uniform that melted into the background of grass and shrubs at a hundred paces, with even the spikes of their helmets covered with cloth.
Westward moved the soldiers, like a swarm of locusts. But they left something behind, an integral part of themselves, their collective brain. About the house of Hans Schmidt sentries were posted. Mechanics, working quietly, swiftly, as if they had known long since what they must do, laid wires into his modest parlour, connected it by telephone and telegraph with Berlin, with the ever-moving forces to the west. In Hans Schmidt's bed slept a corps commander; the whole house was given up to the staff. He himself was allowed a cot in the kitchen. His house was chosen for headquarters.
From the parlour the general ordered the movements of forty thousand men, playing their part, like a piece in a game of chess, in the plan of invasion of the Great Headquarters Staff. Vastly important were these movements; each corps must coördinate absolutely with every other. Confusion here might ruin the whole great plan.
The high-born general was very busy. But on the second day he deigned to notice Hans Schmidt, who had drawn back, his one arm raised in the salute, as the general passed him.
"_Ach!_" said the general. "You have lost an arm! An old soldier, _nicht wahr_?"
"Yes, my general. I left my arm at Gravelotte."
"So! I was in that business, too. I got my company that day, when Steinmetz lost half his corps. _Ach!_ This time we shall finish them even more quickly! Von Kluck is halfway through Belgium; the Crown Prince is hammering at Verdun! We shall be in Paris within the month!"
Hans Schmidt listened respectfully, as became him. The general went to his desk. Hans Schmidt, in his garden, looked at the western sky. Flying low, nearby, was an aeroplane, blunt, snub-nosed. He knew it for a Taube, though no monoplanes had circled over Gravelotte. It turned, and flew eastward, out of sight. Still he peered into the west. High in the air something flashed gold in the rays of the sun, shining upward from behind a cloud. Hans Schmidt went slowly into the kitchen.
There a hot, smokeless fire of hard coal burned to roast two suckling pigs for the dinner of the general and the high-born officers of the staff. He sent out a maid whose duty it was to watch the pigs. Hans Schmidt took a bag from his pocket, emptied it into the fire, added a pile of kindling wood. He went back into the garden. Thoughtfully he looked at the chimney, from which there rose suddenly a thick column of oily black smoke. Straight up it went, higher and higher.
"In Berlin you would be fined for that," said a young staff officer, coming up beside him.
"The maids are careless," answered the patriot.
The officer gaped at the smoke. Hans Schmidt looked to the west. Again he caught the gleam of the sun on metal. From the west a monoplane was coming, flying like a hawk. It took shape. A mile away a gun spoke; another, and another. Above, below the monoplane, hung three fleecy balls of white smoke, where shells had burst. Followed a volley. Other officers came from the house to stare upward. On came the monoplane.
"A French flyer!" cried one.
It was overhead. It paused in its flight, circled. A tiny black thing hurtled down. The side wall of Hans Schmidt's house vanished. In a moment more there was no house--only a heap of smoking ruins. Amid fused wires a thing that had been a man, in the uniform of a general, dragged itself, shrieking, till it died.
"The smoke!" cried an officer. "It was a signal! Headquarters was betrayed!"
"Fools!" cried Hans Schmidt, as they turned on him. "The arm I left at Gravelotte carried a French _chassepôt_! _Vive la France! Vive Alsace--jamais plus Elsass! Vive la rep_----"
A revolver spat in his face. But as he lay his staring eyes were turned to the west, to a monoplane that was flying home to France.
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THE BAD MAN
By Harry C. Goodwin
"Prisoner to the bar," called the Clerk of the Court.
The prisoner came forward, closely followed by a dog, which, because it had been evidence during the trial, had become known as Exhibit A. In one hand the man held what might have been a hat when new. The other hand hung at his side so the dog could reach up and give it an affectionate lick now and then--when the man needed sympathy and encouragement.
In answer to questions put, the prisoner said he was John Brent, twenty-seven years old, and his mother's name was Mary.
"And your father's name?" asked the clerk, thinking Brent had overlooked this detail.
"Never had none."
The judge looked up, glanced in sympathy at the prisoner, then looked down again.
The famous Von Betz, who had caused Brent's arrest and trial, sneered.
Some women present, attracted by the high social and professional standing of the great Von Betz, looked shocked.
Possibly they were shocked.
Exhibit A moved closer and gave the hand of his master two or three encouraging licks and wagged his tail joyfully in recognition of the prisoner's friendly smile.
"The jury," said the judge, "has found you guilty of assault, with intent to kill, on the person of Dr. Enrich Von Betz. You have had a fair trial. The evidence seems to justify the verdict. Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed?"
"I would like to say something, judge, 'cause I got a hunch you'll understand. I got a feelin' you'd done the same thing I did. I never had a father, and the world seems to blame me. But it wasn't my fault, and I've never blamed my mother, neither. She was a good girl. I've had a pretty tough time--nobody but my mother, the dog, and God has given me a square deal. Sometimes God forgot, I guess."
The judge leaned forward, interested. The dog licked the prisoner's hand and wagged his tail. Thus encouraged, Brent continued:
"There ain't been a day since my mother died that some one ain't come along and made me feel in the way. Every time I'd get a new start some one would say I didn't have a father, an' back I'd go.
"I got to thinkin' I must be a pretty bad man until Yip, the dog, fell in with me three years ago. Guess he saw somethin' in me others didn't. He didn't ask if I had a father. He's stuck by me, he's starved fer me, an I've starved fer him. Just see how he looks at me, judge. A dog don't look at a man like that unless he sees some good in all the bad.
"I pulled Yip out from under a trolley car and went under myself. They took me to the hospital and sent Yip to the pound. I was in for a long time, and on the day I left I did this thing I'm going up for.
"I was passing a building on the grounds when I heard a dog yelp. It was Yip. I don't know how I got in, but I did. I don't know exactly what I did when I got in. I guess I did come near killing the doctor.
"But judge," and his voice grew thick from anger, "when I got in I saw Yip stretched out on his back. They had straps pulling his legs one way and his head another way so he couldn't move. All he could do was cry--cry just like a baby that knows he's being hurt but don't know why.
"And the doctor, judge, was standing over Yip and the knife in his hand was all bloody."
"Go on," said the judge.
"I ain't got anything more to say, except that I want you to send Yip along when you send me away. If you don't, judge, and the doctor gets Yip and kills him, I'll kill the doctor when I gets out, because I've got just as much right fer killin' the doctor as he's got to kill Yip. That's all I got to say, judge."
"I know how you feel, Brent," said the judge, in a rather husky voice. "I've got a dog at home--a dog like Yip. And--and--but duty compels me to sentence you to ten years at hard labour, and I impose a similar sentence on the dog Yip----"
"Thanks, judge, thanks, fer sending Yip along. You know, judge. You got a heart, you got feelings, just like Yip and your dog has. You----"
"But in view of the circumstances that provoked the assault," interrupted the judge, "I'll suspend your sentence during good behaviour."
"But Yip," begged the man without a father.
"I'll suspend Yip's sentence, too," smiled the judge.
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NEMESIS
By Mary Clark
The Little White Mare stirred uneasily in the narrow stall, and shifted her weight from one three-legged balance to another. There was no room to lie down, and the warm stench of ankle-deep manure could not rise as far as the small opening where, occasionally, penetrated a flickering beam from the arc light at the corner.
The day's work had been hard, and supper inadequate; in her dreams there came the taste of a carrot, succulent, crunchy, tender, but solid, a carrot such as the little boy used to give her--the little boy who lived on the long street of the hard pavement and the many car-tracks. That was in the days when Estevan and she had carried fruit and vegetables in the old cart, and pleasantly, had stopped before many houses, often three and four times in a block. By her association memory (the only memory psychologists allow her kind) she recognized that street whenever she crossed it in her journeys--the Street of the Carrots.
But, latterly, they carried other things in the cart, heavy, jangly things, queer, knobby sacks that Estevan gathered hastily, a few at a time, at strange hours, in quiet places. In night journeys to dark alleys and courtyards the loads were transferred to other Mexicans, who counted small jingling pieces into Estevan's ready palm. Nowadays there were no carrots, no rest under spreading cottonwoods and chinaberries. With Estevan there never had been anything to associate but work and blows. Such is life--far too little dirty water from a dirty pail; roughage for food, with, now and then, a grudging heap of cheapest grain; a galling harness; a filthy stall; work--never-ending work; a child and a carrot the only memory of a kindness!
El Paso she knew, not as you know it--its mountain vistas, its blocks of substantial homes and pleasant bungalows, but as her half-starved, rickety old frame knew it: hard-paved streets that hurt her feet; dreadful, unpaved ones where she stumbled in the ruts and mud or choked with dust; the mountain winds of winter; the wicked summer gusts that gather up adjacent Mexico and blow it to the Mesa, only, a few days later, to resume the burden and with it madly assail Mt. Franklin; the cruel summer heat when, afternoon long, Estevan dozed in the cool 'dobe while she stood in the pitiless glare, harnessed and helpless, envious of the paltry, flapping shadow cast by the red rag that floated over the abarroteria, telling, though she neither knew nor cared, that carne, fresh carne, was for sale that day. And heat, glare, red rag, dreadful streets of Chihuahuita, their memory association was--flies, millions, billions, black, busy, buzzing, biting flies.
Now, even in her sleep, she heard them.
Disturbed in their myriad sleep, the flies buzzed mightily. Estevan's heavy slap fell on her shoulder, and in the starry darkness he hustled her out of the stall and into harness. Past dark rows of 'dobes and one-storied shops--jog--jog; jolt--jolt over rough tracks where the shrieking engines run; a smothered "'Spero" brought the Little White Mare to an obedient halt in the black shadow of a freight-car.
Men waited there for Estevan, there were signs and whispers. What business of hers! She lowered her head to nose a pile of sacks; one was torn; cautiously she smelled, then licked it. Heavenly! a substance rough like salt, that turned magically on one's tongue to smooth, slippery, ineffable sweetness! Sugar it was, a carload, sent from dangerous Mexico to the safety of these United States. In the deep shadow the thieves skilfully shifted the sacks from the car to Estevan, who swung them into his cart.
Something amiss! The men muttered to each other, crouched, dropped from cart to car, disappeared in the black beyond. Industriously the Little White Mare nuzzled the torn burlap into whose folds the delightful fodder was receding.
Dazzling light--big men--men different from Estevan--everywhere--in the cart--around it at her head.
"Vamoosed! Hell take it!" was the verdict.
"And will you look who's here," cried the biggest, turning his torch on the laden cart. "Lord love you, it's a haul for a Packard truck! They sure got this old bonebag anchored! Must be a ton or two on that wagon. Well, men, shift most of this to the patrol, seal the car, and run in this outfit as evidence."
The Little White Mare stood at ease, contented, warm and sleepy, while the big man at her head rubbed back of her ear in a delightful and unaccustomed way.
The patrol whirled away.
"All right, Bourke," they called, "you can escort the corpse."
"Look out for the speed-cop, bo. It's four blocks to the boneyard."
Bourke swung into the driver's seat, clucked comfortably, and always obedient, the Little White Mare turned from the freight yard into the dusty road.
A strange creature, this man with the big, soft hands--no sharp, jerking rein, the whip, forgotten; maybe he slept; when Estevan slept he awoke with, always, a crueler lash.
For all animals Bourke had a tender friendliness, and the sight of the scarred, decrepit back patiently jogging between the shafts irritated him, as did the nervous wince the old mare gave when he joggled the whip-handle in the broken socket. The idea grew in grim delectability that she might, of her own habit, deliver her tormentor to the law.
"Now's your chance to get even, old girl," he muttered; then louder, "take me to him--_casa--sige casa!_"
Reins flat on her back, a full stomach and an easy mind, that strange association memory said to the Little White Mare that it was time to be at home, in the dirty stall, with the empty manger and the sleeping flies.
Jog, jog, past the sleeping 'dobes, past the shops, into the familiar alley--home, at last!
Bourke was gone; from the house beyond the stable partition came Estevan's voice, high, whining, pleading.
A shrill whistle outside; other voices; the whir of the patrol speeding townward; silence; sleep.
The Little White Mare was avenged.
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THE BLACK DOOR
By Gordon Seagrove
"Lieutenant Townley," said Captain Von Dee sharply, "as a spy you will be executed in two hours. Pursuant to my custom you will be given a choice in the matter. Either you may elect to be shot in the customary manner, or you may pass through the Black Door which you see behind me. State your choice when the hour comes."
Von Dee--"Von Dee the whimsical" they called him in the trenches--turned to his reports while Lieutenant Townley was led back to the cell. A great hopelessness fell upon the latter. So this was the end then? All his hopes, his plans with regard to marriage to Cecile were to be swept away. It was difficult to realize that in another hour he would be separated by an unfathomable void from the woman whom he loved like life itself and trusted like no man had ever trusted woman before.
"Shot ... or the Black Door...." Von Dee's words came back to him. What horrible fate--which legend held was worse than death--met those who passed beyond the Black Door? He knew that not one of death prisoners had dared to pass beyond it. Each had chosen death at the hands of the firing squad.
A half hour passed. Then, suddenly, a scrap of paper fluttered into his hands. He opened it and read:
"Choose the Black Door. I know." It was signed Cecile.
Now the hour for the execution could not come soon enough. Cecile had remembered! Cecile had saved him. Perhaps behind the Black Door he would only be maimed or crippled and could go back to Cecile. As the guards led him into Von Dee's quarters his heart pounded gladly. In the gloom of the room he could see Von Dee and a stranger talking. In another moment he would tell Captain Von Dee that he, Lieutenant Townley, elected to pass through the Black Door.
He waited. Apparently his presence was not noted. He could hear scraps of conversation: "I've always maintained," Von Dee was saying, "that, no matter how brave a man, he will choose a known form of death rather than an unknown...."
There was a lull, and then the other voice said: "And you are the only one who knows what lies beyond the Black Door?"
"No," Von Dee answered his brother. "A woman knows." Then he added with a light laugh: "She was a former mistress of mine!"
Lieutenant Townley heard, trembled, turned white, then stiffened. Von Dee was before him, talking. "Well, Lieutenant," he said, "do you elect the Black Door?"
"I do not!" the prisoner answered. Von Dee nodded to the guards who led Lieutenant Townley away. A moment later came the report of the firing squad on the drill grounds.
"What did I tell you!" cried Von Dee to his brother. "Lieutenant Townley, one of the bravest, couldn't face the unknown. He went the usual way." For several moments he puffed his cigar silently, then: "Birwitz," he asked suddenly, "do you know what lies beyond the Black Door?"
The younger Von Dee shook his head.
"Freedom," said Captain Von Dee. "And I've never met a man brave enough to take it!"
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THE MAN WHO TOLD
By John Cutler
Toward midnight in the smoking-room of the trans-Atlantic liner Howard, the author, held forth on realism and romance. In one of his pauses another of the company broke in:
"Realism," said the interrupter, "is but the word with which those who can see nothing but the ordinary and humdrum in life try to excuse their blindness to the romances that unfold themselves all about us every day. The last time I heard the doctrine of realism preached was in the home of a wealthy New Yorker who declared that in his life there had never been the least tinge of the unusual or the romantic. He had never fallen in love and never had any adventures. Three days later in the morning he was found seated in a chair on the piazza of his summer home dead from a stab wound through the heart. Three hundred thousand dollars in cash which he had received from the sale of a block of bonds was missing from his office safe where he had placed it the preceding late afternoon because his bank was closed. The only clue found to the murderer was a blood-stained stiletto which was discovered between the Old and the New Testaments in a big family Bible on a high shelf in the library of the murdered man's summer home. The mystery of the murder was never solved."
"The plot of a very interesting story," commented Howard and went on with his monologue. A little later the party broke up. On his way to his stateroom Winton, who had been one of them, dropped in at the wireless room and sent a message.
Three days later at the New York pier the man who had interrupted Howard was arrested for murder committed four years before. "I was once a member of the force," explained Winton to Howard; "that stiletto was never found until he told where to look for it that night in the smoking-room."
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THE UNANSWERED CALL
By Thomas T. Hoyne
Six months of married life had not staled the two great adventures in each week day of Delia Hetherington's placid existence--the morning leavetaking and the evening return of her husband. His departure was a climax of lingering kisses, admonitions, and exhortations; his return a triumph. Did he not put all to the touch with Fortune at every parting and go forth to strive all day, a dauntless hero, 'mid motor juggernauts and rushing trolley cars, 'neath dangling safes and dropping tiles, beside treacherous pitfalls and yawning manholes? But ever he bore a charmed life and returned to his love in the dark of the evening with thrilling tales of his salesmanship and of repartee to his boss.