Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks by Bracebridge Hemyng (inspirational books for women .txt) 📖

[2] "He calls himself Ikey Mole," says Jack to the commissaire de police.

"Aîké Moll!" repeats the commissaire, pronouncing the incongruous sounds as nearly as he can. "Why, he must be an Arab."

To which Jack, with all his ready impudence, replies—

"Yes, sir, he is an Arab. He was one of Abd-el-Kader's lieutenants."

We need scarcely remind our readers that Abd-el-Kader was the doughty Arab chief who made so heroic a resistance to the French in Algiers.

This satisfied the commissaire, who respectfully bade Mole pass on.

They went on, and Mole anxiously questioned Jack.

"I'm getting quite deaf," said he, by way of a pretext for not having understood the conversation. "Whatever were you saying?"

"I told him your name was Isaac Mole, sir," returned Jack.

"You said Ikey Mole, sir," retorted Mole, "and that is a very great liberty, sir."

"Not at all. Iké is the French for Isaac," responded the unblushing Jack.

"But what was all that they were saying about Arab?"

"Arab!" repeated Jack, in seeming astonishment.

"Yes."

"Didn't hear it myself."

"I certainly thought I caught the word Arab," said Mr. Mole, giving Jack a very suspicious glance.

"You never made a greater mistake, sir, in your life."

"How very odd."

"Very."

The Cannebière is the chief promenade in Marseilles, and the inhabitants of this important seaport are not a little proud of it.

Two men sat smoking cigarettes and sipping lazily at their grog au vin at the door of one of then numerous cafés in the Cannebière.

To these two men we invite the reader's attention.

One was a swarthy-looking Frenchman from the south, a man of a decent exterior, but with a fierce and restless glance.

He was the sort of man whom you would sooner have as a friend than as an enemy.

A steadfast friend—an implacable foe!

That was what you read in his peculiar physiognomy, in that odd mixture of defiance and fearlessness, those anxious glances, frankness and deceit, the varied expressions of which passed in rapid succession across his countenance.

This man called himself Pierre Lenoir, although he was known in other ports by other names.

Pierre Lenoir was a sort of Jack of all trades.

He had been apprenticed to an engraver, and had shown remarkable aptitude for that profession, but, being of a roving and restless disposition, he ran away from his employer to ship on board a merchant vessel.

After a cruise or two he was wrecked, and narrowly escaped with his life.

Tired of the sea, for awhile he obtained employment with a medallist, where his skill as an engraver stood him in good stead.

From this occupation he fled as soon as his ready adaptability had made him a useful hand to his new master, and took to a roving life again. What he was now doing in Marseilles no one could positively assert.

How it was that Pierre Lenoir had such an abundant supply of ready money, the progress of our narrative will show—for with it are connected several of not the least exciting episodes in the career of young Jack Harkaway.

So much for Pierre Lenoir.

Now for his companion at the café.

He was called Markby, and, as his name indicates, he was an Englishman.

Being but a poor French scholar, he had scraped up an acquaintance with Pierre Lenoir, chiefly on account of the latter's proficiency in the English language.

There is little to be said concerning Markby's past history, for reasons which will presently be apparent.

What further reason he may have had for cultivating the friendship of the rover, Pierre Lenoir, will probably show itself in due course.

"I have disposed of that last batch of five-franc pieces," said Markby. "Here are the proceeds."

"Keep it back," exclaimed Lenoir hurriedly.

"What for?"

"It is sheer madness for us to be seen conversing together," replied Lenoir, casting an anxious glance about him from behind his hat, which he held in his hand so as to shield his features, "much less to be seen exchanging money—why, it is suicidal—nothing less."

"Is there any danger, do you think?"

"Do I think? Do I know? Why, this place is literally alive with spies—mouchards as we called them here. Every second man you meet is a mouchard."

"Do you mean it?"

"Rather."

"That's not a pleasant thing to know," said Markby.

"I don't agree with you there," replied Lenoir. "'Forewarned, forearmed,' is a proverb in your language. But now tell me about this friend and countryman of yours."

"He's no friend of mine," returned Markby. "I know him as a great traveller, and one who has opportunities of placing more false——"

"Hush, imprudent!" interrupted Lenoir. "Call it stock. You know not how many French spies may be passing, or how near we may be to danger."

Markby took the hint given him, and continued—

"Well, stock. He can place more—he has probably placed more than any man alive. He travels about en grand seigneur—lords it in high places and disposes of the counterf——"

"Stock."

"Stock, in regular loads. But he's as wary as a fox—nothing can approach him in cunning."

"The very man I want," exclaimed Lenoir. "This fellow could, with my aid, make a fortune for himself and me in less than a year—a large fortune."

"You are very sanguine," said Markby, with a smile.

"I am, but not over sanguine. I speak by the book, for I know well what I am talking of. You must introduce me."

"You are running on wildly," said Markby. "Did I not tell you that he did not know me—that he would not know me if he did? So careful is he that his own brother would fail to draw any thing from him concerning the way in which he gets his living."

"Dame!" muttered Lenoir, "he seems a precious difficult fellow to approach."

"Yes, on that subject," responded Markby; "but he's genial and agreeable enough if you introduce yourself by accident, as it were, and chat upon social topics generally, without the vaguest reference to the subject nearest your heart."

"How shall I ever lead him up to the point?"

"Easily. For instance, talk about art matters. Allude to your gallery of sculpture. Ask him, is he fond of bas reliefs? Tell him of your skill as a medallist."

"Medallist might put him on the scent, if he is so dreadfully wary," said Lenoir.

"No fear. He would never dream of such a thing. Medalling being a sort of sister art to what most interests him, he would be sure to bite at the chance. You lead him to your little underground snuggery, and once there all need for his wonderful caution will be at an end."

"I see," said Lenoir, rubbing his hands. "But stay"—and here his face grew a bit serious—"this fellow is faithful?"

"True as steel," responded Markby.

"That's right," said Lenoir, with a look that caused a twinge of uneasiness to be felt by his companion, "for woe betide the man that plays me false."

"No fear of this man—man, I call him, but he is in appearance at least little more than a lad, although he was travelled all over the world."

Here Markby arose to move away.

"Stop a bit," said Lenoir. "I have forgotten to ask rather an important detail."

"What is it?"

"The name of this fellow?"

"Jack Harkaway," was the reply.

CHAPTER XC.

MARKBY'S MISSIVE—ON THE WATCH!—"SMART FELLOW, MARKBY!"—MARKBY'S MYRMIDON—THE SPY'S MISSION.

The Englishman Markby was gone before Pierre Lenoir could question him further.

"Jack Harkaway?" exclaimed Lenoir; "I have heard that name before. Of course; I remember now. But Markby speaks of him as a lad. Why, the Harkaway that I remember must be a middle-aged man by now; besides, what little I knew of Harkaway then would not show him to be a likely man for my purpose."

Not long after this, as Lenoir was upon the point of rising and leaving the café, a commissionaire or public messenger came up at a run with a note in his hand.

"M'sieu Lenoir."

"C'est moi."

He took the note and found it to contain the following words, scribbled boldly by Markby—