The Wood Fire in No. 3 Part 12

"The tall one reached over the pile, picked up a log and shoved it in the stove. Then the two stretched themselves out at full length and looked steadily at the blaze, the steam from their wet clothes filling the room. No other word was pa.s.sed, either by the men or by my brother or myself, nor did we change our positions. I sat on one of the stools and my brother sat in the corner where he could draw a bead if either of the men showed fight. Three o'clock came, then four, then five, and then the cold gray light which tells of the coming dawn stole in between the cracks of the cabin and the broken window. At the first streak of light the tall man lifted himself to his feet, the short man followed, and swinging wide the door the two stalked out to the farthest edge of the pile of boulders overlooking the plain, where they squatted on their haunches, their eyes toward the east. We took our positions on a rock behind them, a little higher up. Any move they made would come under the fire of my brother's toy gun. The sun's disk rose slowly--first a peep of the old fellow's eye, then half his cheek, and then his round, jolly face wreathed in smiles. When the bottom edge of his chin had swung clear of the crest of the distant mountain range the tall man leaned over his companion and said in a decisive tone:

"'Well, Bill, she's up,' and without a word to either of us they swung themselves through the opening in the boulders and disappeared."

The coterie had listened in their usual absorbed way whenever Marny had the floor. His experience, like Mac's, covered half the world. Boggs had not taken his eyes from Marny's face during the entire recital.

"And that's all you know about them?" asked Lonnegan in a serious tone.

"Except what the landlord told us," continued Marny in answer, turning to Lonnegan. "The two men, he said, had stopped at the tavern about nine o'clock that night, had asked who was on top, and had hurried on; all they wanted was a stable lantern, which he lent them, and which they didn't return. He had never seen either of them before, and they didn't pa.s.s the tavern on their way back."

"What did you think of the affair?" asked Pitkin in a serious tone of voice.

"We had only two conclusions. They had either come to rob us, and were scared off by the toy pistol, or they were carrying out a wager of some kind."

"And it took you all night and the next day to find that out?"

exclaimed Boggs in a tone of a.s.sumed contempt. "Really, gentlemen, this whole afternoon should go on record as the proceedings of a kindergarten. Just think what rot we've had: Lonnegan promises a poor workingman a job and takes to his heels to cheat him out of his pay; Marny, who, like Mac, poses as a philanthropist, and claims to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, refuses shelter to two half-drowned tourists who come up to see the sunrise, and instead of hustling round to get 'em hot tea and grub, he posts his big brother in a corner with a gun where he can blow the tops of their heads off. Rot--all of it! But what I object to most is the 'let-down' at the tag-end of each of these yarns. You work up to a climax, and nothing happens. Just like one of these half-baked modern plays we've been having--all the climax in the first act, and a dreary drivel from that on till the curtain drops. I expected Marny's yarn would taper off in a hand-to-hand death struggle; both men thrown over the cliff; the finding of their mangled bodies, impaled on the trees, by the sheriff, who had tracked them for years, and who promptly identified both scoundrels, one as 'Dead House d.i.c.k'

and the other as 'Murder Pete'; a vote of thanks to the two heroes by the State legislature, one of whom, thank G.o.d! is still with us"--and he bowed grandiloquently at Marny--"and a ring-down with a beautiful, unknown woman, supposed to be an heiress, creeping in at twilight to weep over their graves, all the stage lights turned down and a low tremolo going on in the orchestra. Tamest, deadest lot of twaddle I've heard around this fire! Now let me tell you a yarn that _means_ something. Blood this time--red blood. None of your dress-suit and warmed-up tea and toy-pistol adventures."

Everybody straightened up in his chair to get a better view of Boggs.

The Chronic Interrupter was about to appear in a new role. The speaker opened his coat, tossed back the lapels as if to give his plump body more room, and rose slowly to his feet, his black diamond-pointed eyes glistening, his lips quivering with suppressed merriment. It was evident that Boggs was loaded to the muzzle; it was also evident, from the unusual earnestness of his manner, that he was about to fire off something of more than usual importance.

"No preliminaries, mind you. Right to the spot in a jump. This happened in Stamboul the winter I made those sketches of the mosques."

Mac looked up, an expression of surprise in his face. He thought he knew every act of Boggs's life from his cradle up--they being bosom chums.

That Boggs had even been in the East was news to him. Boggs caught the look and repeated his opening in a louder voice.

"In Stamboul, remember, across the Galata from Pera. I had finished the flight of marble steps and entrance of the Valedee, and was looking around for another subject, when a Turk with a green scarf around his fez (that showed he'd been to Mecca), who had been keeping off the crowd while I painted, offered to carry my trap to the Mosque of the Six Minarets up in the Plaza of the Hippodrome. A man who has been to Mecca is generally to be trusted, so I handed him my kit and followed his lead. On the way to the plaza he stopped beside a low wall and pointed to an opening in the ground. I looked down and saw a flight of stone steps.

"'This is not for the Effendi to paint,' he said, 'but it is something for him to see. It is the great underground cistern where the water was kept during the sieges.'

"That suited me to a dot--caverns always appeal to me--and down I went, followed by the green fez. Down, down, down, into a big vaulted chamber, the roof supported on marble columns running back into the gloom, only the nearby ones in relief where the light from the opening above fell upon their white shafts, very much as a forest looks at night when a torch is lighted. Stretching away was a dirt floor, uneven in places, and away back in the half-gloom I could make out the surface of a great pool. Now and then something would strike the water, the splash reverberating through the cavern.

"When my eyes became more accustomed to the darkness I could see men moving about, dragging ropes, and beyond these a dull light, like that from a grimy cellar window. This, the Turk said, was the other exit, the one nearest to the Mosque of the Six Minarets; the men, he added, were rope-makers; some of them lived here and only left the cisterns at night, as the daylight blinded them. So I followed on, the Turk ahead, my kit in his hand.

"In the centre of the enormous cavern, half-way between the light of the street opening above the steps and the distant cellar-window light, I came to a circle of big stone columns standing close together, enclosing a s.p.a.ce not much bigger than this room of Mac's. They were of marble and rather large for their height, although it was so dark that I could not see the roof distinctly. At this instant one of those indefinable chills, which with me always foretells danger, crept over me. I called to the Turk. There was no answer; only the sound of his feet, but quicker, as if he were running. Then a feeling took possession of me of someone following me--that's another one of my safeguards. I turned my head quickly and caught the edge of a man's body as it dodged behind the column I had just pa.s.sed. Then a head was thrust from around the column in front, then another on the side--rough looking brutes, bareheaded and frowzy. There was no question now--the Turk was their accomplice and had led me into this trap. These fellows meant business. Not backsheesh, but murder, and your body in the pool!" Here Boggs's manner became more serious. The suppressed smile had vanished.

"I was better built in those days than I am now," he continued in a graver tone; "not so fat, and could run like a sand-snipe, and it didn't take me long to decide what to do. To reach the staircase was my only hope.

"I whirled suddenly, struck the brute behind the rear column full in the face before he could raise his hands, sprang over his body, and ran with all my might toward the light at the foot of the staircase. If you thought you were running, Lonnegan, up that long street, you should have seen me light out. It was a race for life over an uneven pavement, where I might stumble any moment, four men pursuing me, then three, then one.

I could tell this from their footfalls. The light grew stronger; I turned my head for a second to size up my opponent. He was younger than the others, was naked to the waist, and wore only a pair of trunks. His bare feet made hardly a sound. I was within fifty yards now of the lower step, running like a deer, my wind almost gone. If I could reach that and bound up into the daylight, he would be afraid to follow. The light footfalls came closer; he was within twenty feet of me; I could hear his heavy breathing and smothered curses. My foot was now within a few feet of the steps; one spring and I would be safe. I put forth all my strength, miscalculated the bottom step, and fell headlong on the steps! The next instant his body struck mine with the impact of a tiger falling upon his prey, flattening me to the steps and grinding my lips into the sand covering the stones--I can taste it now. His fingers tightened about my throat. In my agony I braced myself and rolled over, partly throwing him off. Then my eyes lighted on a long curved knife with a turquoise-studded handle. A man notes these things in a moment like this. I minded even a spot of rust on the blade.

"Again his fingers tightened; my breath was going. That peculiar swelling of the tongue and dryness which sometimes comes with fever filled my mouth. The knife was now tightly gripped in his right hand, his fingers twisting my shirt collar into a tourniquet. I straightened my back, gathered all my strength, and lunged forward. The knife flashed, and then a horrible thing happened!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: Again his fingers tightened; my breath was going.]

Boggs stopped and began mopping his face with his handkerchief. The memory of the fight for his life seemed to have strangely affected him.

No one of the coterie had ever seen him so stirred, and no one had ever dreamed that he could tell a story with so much real dramatic power. In the few moments in which he had been speaking the room was almost breathless except for the tones of his voice.

"Go on, Boggs, don't stop!" said Lonnegan.

"In the struggle for mastery the point of the dagger pressed against my heart. There came a sudden lunge--Oh, I guess, boys, I won't go any further; I never like to think of the affair. I'd no business to tell it; always affects me this way."

"Yes, go on; served the brute right," spoke up Mac.

"I tried, of course, to avoid it, but I was powerless. The knife went straight through my own heart, and I fell dead at his feet. That afternoon they threw my body in the pool. I have lain there ever since."

The listeners, one and all, glared at Boggs. The surprise had been so great that for an instant no one found his tongue. Then the fireside rang with shouts of laughter.

Lonnegan got his breath first.

"Boggs," he cried, "you are the most picturesque liar I know."

"Yes, Lonny, I guess that's so; but I gave you fellows a _thrill_, and that's what none of you gave me!"

PART VI

_Wherein Mac Dilates on the Human Side of "His Worship, the Chief Justice," and his Fellow Dogs._

The group about the blazing logs was enriched this afternoon by a new member. Lonnegan had brought his dog, a big white and yellow St.

Bernard, fluffy as a girl's m.u.f.f, a huge, splendid fellow, who answered with great dignity and with considerable condescension to the name of "Chief," an abbreviation of "His Worship, the Chief Justice."

No other name would have suited him. Grave, dignified, wide-browed, with deep, thoughtful eyes; ponderous of form, slow in his movements, keeping perfectly still minutes at a time, he needed only a wig and a pair of big-bowed spectacles to make him the fitting occupant of any bench.

Mac put his arm around Chief's neck before His Worship had fully made up his mind as to where on the Daghestan rug he would place his august person.

The salutation over, and the dog's soft, fur-tippet ears having been duly rubbed, and his finely modelled cheeks pressed close between Mac's two warm hands--their two noses were but an inch apart--His Worship stretched himself out at full length before the fire, his nose resting on his extended paws, his kindly, human eyes fixed on the crackling logs.

"Lonnegan," said Mac in a thoughtful tone, "do you know I think a good deal more of you since you got this dog? I didn't know you were that human," and Mac changed his seat so that he could rest his hand on Chief's head.

"Lonnegan hasn't anything human about him," broke in Boggs, tugging at his collar to give his fat throat the more room; "not in your sense, Mac. If you will study the Great Architect as closely as I have done, you will see that his humanity is to always keep one point ahead of the social game." Here Boggs got up and moved his chair to the other side of the fireplace, so as to be out of reach of Lonnegan's long arms.

"Let me explain, gentlemen, for I don't want to do this distinguished man any injustice. You and I, Mac, being common-sense people, without any frills about us, wear just an ordinary plain scarf-pin--a horseshoe or a gold ball, or some such trifle. Lonnegan must have a scarab, or a coin two thousand years old; same thing in his dress, if you study him.

You will note that his collars are an inch higher than ours, his scarfs twice as puffy, his coat-tails longer, his trouserloons more baggy--not offensively baggy, gentlemen," and he waved his hand to the coterie; "perhaps more unique in cut, so to put it. So it is with his dogs. This big St. Bernard, hulking along after the Great Architect when he takes his afternoon walks up and down the Avenue, is quite on a par with all Lonnegan's other frills. You and I would affect an inconspicuous canine--a poodle, a terrier, or a bull pup. Not so Lonnegan. He wants a dog as big as a mule. It's a better advertis.e.m.e.nt than two columns in a morning paper. 'My dear,' says a stout lady, built in two movements, to her husband at a theatre" (Boggs's imitation of a society woman's drawl was now inimitable), "'I saw such a magnificent St. Bernard coming up the Avenue. Belongs to Mr. Lonnegan, the architect. He certainly is a man of very exquisite taste. I think it would be a good idea for you to consult him about the plans for our----'"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "It's a better advertis.e.m.e.nt than two columns in a morning paper."]

Lonnegan sprang from his seat and made a lunge at his tormentor with a look in his eyes as if he intended to throttle Boggs on the spot. At the same instant the great dog drew in his paws and rose to his feet, his eyes fixed on his master's movements--rose as an athlete rises, using the muscles of his knees and ankles to pull his body erect. If his master was in danger he was ready. Only smothered laughter, however, came from both Boggs and Lonnegan.

"I take it all back, Lonny," sputtered Boggs, trying to release himself from Lonnegan's grip. "The woman's husband wanted two country houses, not one. Call off your dog, I can't fight two brutes at once."

Pitkin sprang to his feet, his partly bald head and forehead rose-pink in the excitement of the moment.

"Don't call your dog off, Lonny! Don't move. Keep on choking Boggs. Just look at the pose of that dog. Isn't that stunning. By Jove, fellows!

wouldn't he be a corker in bronze, life size. Just see the line of the back and lift of the head!" And the sculptor, after the manner of his guild, held the edge of his hand against his eye as a guide by which to measure the proportions of the n.o.ble beast.