author - "Harold MacGrath"
f the grille in Seventy-third Street.
He leaned against the bars, panting, but completely and thoroughly reveneered. "Of all the colossal tomfools!" he said, aloud. "What in thunder am I going to do now?"
"Well, Aloysius," boomed a heavy voice, which was followed by a still heavier hand, "you might come along with me; the walking's good. Bell out o' order? Was there any beer in the ice-chest?" The policeman peered under the peak of Armitage's cap. "I saw you climb over that grille. Up with your hands, and no monkey-shines, or I'll rap you one on the conk!"
Armitage obeyed mechanically. There was a temporary cut-off between his mind and his body; they had ceased to co-ordinate. The policeman patted all the pockets, and a thrill of relief ran over the victim. Somewhere along the route he had lost the automatic. As he felt the experienced fingers going over his body he summoned with Herculean effort his scattered forces. Smack into the arms of a policeman! Here was a situation which called f
nd; saw also the open wonder on the reporter's pleasant face.
"Who is your friend, Norton?" Braine asked indifferently, his head still unturned.
"Stanley Hargreave. Met him in Hongkong when I was sent over to handle a part of the revolution. War correspondence stuff. First time I ever ran across him on Broadway at night. We've since had some powwows over some rare books. Queer old cock; brave as a lion, but as quiet as a mouse."
"Bookish, eh? My kind. Bring him over." Underneath the table Braine maneuvered to touch the foot of the countess.
"I don't know," said the reporter dubiously. "He might say no, and that would embarrass the whole lot of us. He's a bit of a hermit. I'm surprised to see him here."
"Try," urged the countess. "I like to meet men who are hermits."
"I haven't the least doubt about that," the reporter laughed. "I'll try; but don't blame me if I'm rebuffed."
He left the table with evident reluctance and approached Hargreave. The two shook hands
Kathlyn with evasions. Frowning,he replaced the order in the box, which he put away in a drawer. Itwas all arrant nonsense, anyhow; nothing could possibly happen; ifthere did, he would feel certain that he no longer dwelt in a realworkaday world. The idle whim of a sardonic old man; nothing more thanthat.
"Father, is the king dead?"
"Dead! What makes you ask that, Kit?"
"The past tense; you said he was, not is."
"Yes, he's dead, and the news came this morning. Hence, the yarn."
"Will there be any danger in returning?"
"My girl, whenever I pack my luggage there is danger. A cartridge maystick; a man may stumble; a man you rely on may fail you. As for that,there's always danger. It's the penalty of being alive."
On the way to the dining-room Kathlyn thought deeply. Why had herfather asked them if they loved him? Why did he speak of the Big Trek?There was something more than this glittering medal, something morethan this simple tale of bravery. What? Well, if he declin
f the grille in Seventy-third Street.
He leaned against the bars, panting, but completely and thoroughly reveneered. "Of all the colossal tomfools!" he said, aloud. "What in thunder am I going to do now?"
"Well, Aloysius," boomed a heavy voice, which was followed by a still heavier hand, "you might come along with me; the walking's good. Bell out o' order? Was there any beer in the ice-chest?" The policeman peered under the peak of Armitage's cap. "I saw you climb over that grille. Up with your hands, and no monkey-shines, or I'll rap you one on the conk!"
Armitage obeyed mechanically. There was a temporary cut-off between his mind and his body; they had ceased to co-ordinate. The policeman patted all the pockets, and a thrill of relief ran over the victim. Somewhere along the route he had lost the automatic. As he felt the experienced fingers going over his body he summoned with Herculean effort his scattered forces. Smack into the arms of a policeman! Here was a situation which called f
nd; saw also the open wonder on the reporter's pleasant face.
"Who is your friend, Norton?" Braine asked indifferently, his head still unturned.
"Stanley Hargreave. Met him in Hongkong when I was sent over to handle a part of the revolution. War correspondence stuff. First time I ever ran across him on Broadway at night. We've since had some powwows over some rare books. Queer old cock; brave as a lion, but as quiet as a mouse."
"Bookish, eh? My kind. Bring him over." Underneath the table Braine maneuvered to touch the foot of the countess.
"I don't know," said the reporter dubiously. "He might say no, and that would embarrass the whole lot of us. He's a bit of a hermit. I'm surprised to see him here."
"Try," urged the countess. "I like to meet men who are hermits."
"I haven't the least doubt about that," the reporter laughed. "I'll try; but don't blame me if I'm rebuffed."
He left the table with evident reluctance and approached Hargreave. The two shook hands
Kathlyn with evasions. Frowning,he replaced the order in the box, which he put away in a drawer. Itwas all arrant nonsense, anyhow; nothing could possibly happen; ifthere did, he would feel certain that he no longer dwelt in a realworkaday world. The idle whim of a sardonic old man; nothing more thanthat.
"Father, is the king dead?"
"Dead! What makes you ask that, Kit?"
"The past tense; you said he was, not is."
"Yes, he's dead, and the news came this morning. Hence, the yarn."
"Will there be any danger in returning?"
"My girl, whenever I pack my luggage there is danger. A cartridge maystick; a man may stumble; a man you rely on may fail you. As for that,there's always danger. It's the penalty of being alive."
On the way to the dining-room Kathlyn thought deeply. Why had herfather asked them if they loved him? Why did he speak of the Big Trek?There was something more than this glittering medal, something morethan this simple tale of bravery. What? Well, if he declin