VIVE LE ROI!
When, an hour later, John landed in New York from the ferry, his mood
had changed. The sun and the breeze had done their work. He looked on
life once more with a cheerful and optimistic eye.
His first act, on landing, was to proceed to the office of the
_News_ and enquire for Rupert Smith. He felt that he had urgent
need of a few minutes' conversation with him. Now that the painter had
been definitely cut that bound him to the safe and conventional, and he
had set out on his own account to lead the life adventurous, he was
conscious of an absurd diffidence. New York looked different to him. It
made him feel positively shy. A pressing need for a friendly native in
this strange land manifested itself. Smith would have ideas and advice
to bestow--he was notoriously prolific of both--and in this crisis both
were highly necessary.
Smith, however, was not at the office. He had gone out, John was
informed, earlier in the morning to cover a threatened strike somewhere
down on the East Side. John did not go in search of him. The chance of
finding him in that maze of mean streets was remote. He decided to go
uptown, select a hotel, and lunch. To the need for lunch he attributed
a certain sinking sensation of which he was becoming more and more
aware, and which bore much too close a resemblance to dismay to be
pleasant. The poet's statement that "the man who's square, his chances
always are best; no circumstance can shoot a scare into the contents of
his vest," is only true within limits. The squarest men, deposited
suddenly in New York and faced with the prospect of earning his living
there, is likely to quail for a moment. New York is not like other
cities. London greets the stranger with a sleepy grunt. Paris giggles.
New York howls. A gladiator, waiting in the center of the arena while
the Colosseum officials fumbled with the bolts of the door behind which
paced the noisy tiger he was to fight, must have had some of the
emotions which John experienced during his first hour as a masterless
man in Gotham.
A surface car carried him up Broadway. At Times Square the Astor Hotel
loomed up on the left. It looked a pretty good hotel to John. He
dismounted.
Half an hour later he decided that he was acclimated. He had secured a
base of operations in the shape of a room on the seventh floor, his
check was safely deposited in the hotel bank, and he was half-way
through a lunch which had caused him already to look on New York not
only as the finest city in the world, but also, on the whole, as the
one city of all others in which a young man might make a fortune with
the maximum of speed and the minimum of effort.
After lunch, having telegraphed his address to his uncle in case of
mail, he took the latter's excellent advice and went to the polo
grounds. Returning in time to dress, he dined at the hotel, after which
he visited a near-by theater, and completed a pleasant and strenuous
day at one of those friendly restaurants where the music is continuous
and the waiters are apt to burst into song in the intervals of their
other duties.
A second attempt to find Smith next morning failed, as the first had
done. The staff of the News were out of bed and at work ridiculously
early, and when John called up the office between eleven and twelve
o'clock--nature's breakfast-hour--Smith was again down East, observing
the movements of those who were about to strike or who had already
struck.
It hardly seemed worth while starting to lay the bed plates of his
fortune till he had consulted the expert. What would Rockefeller have
done? He would, John felt certain, have gone to the ball-game.
He imitated the great financier.
* * * * *
It was while he was smoking a cigar after dinner that night, musing on
the fortunes of the day's game and, in particular, on the almost
criminal imbecility of the umpire, that he was dreamily aware that he
was being "paged." A small boy in uniform was meandering through the
room, chanting his name.
"Gent wants five minutes wit' you," announced the boy, intercepted.
"Hasn't got no card. Business, he says."
This disposed of the idea that Rupert Smith had discovered his retreat.
John was puzzled. He could not think of another person in New York who
knew of his presence at the Astor. But it was the unknown that he was
in search of, and he decided to see the mysterious stranger.
"Send him along," he said.
The boy disappeared, and presently John observed him threading his way
back among the tables, followed by a young man of extraordinary gravity
of countenance, who was looking about him with an intent gaze through a
pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
John got up to meet him.
"My name is Maude," he said. "Won't you sit down? Have you had dinner?"
"Thank you, yes," said the spectacled young man.
"You'll have a cigar and coffee, then?"
"Thank you, yes."
The young man remained silent until the waiter had filled his cup.
"My name is Crump," he said. "I am Mr. Benjamin Scobell's private
secretary."
"Yes?" said John. "Snug job?"
The other seemed to miss something in his voice.
"You have heard of Mr. Scobell?" he asked.
"Not to my knowledge," said John.
"Ah! you have lost touch very much with Mervo, of course."
John stared.
"Mervo?"
It sounded like some patent medicine.
"I have been instructed," said Mr. Crump solemnly, "to inform Your
Highness that the Republic has been dissolved, and that your subjects
offer you the throne of your ancestors."
John leaned back in his chair, and looked at the speaker in dumb
amazement. The thought flashed across him that Mr. Crump had been
perfectly correct in saying that he had dined.
His attitude appeared to astound Mr. Crump. He goggled through his
spectacles at John, who was reminded of some rare fish.
"You are John Maude? You said you were."
"I'm John Maude right enough. We're solid on that point."
"And your mother was the only sister of Mr. Andrew Westley?"
"You're right there, too."
"Then there is no mistake. I say the Republic--" He paused, as if
struck with an idea. "Don't you know?" he said. "Your father--"
John became suddenly interested.
"If you've got anything to tell me about my father, go right ahead.
You'll be the only man I've ever met who has said a word about him. Who
the deuce was he, anyway?"
Mr. Crump's face cleared.
"I understand. I had not expected this. You have been kept in
ignorance. Your father, Mr. Maude, was the late Prince Charles of
Mervo."
It was not easy to astonish John, but this announcement did so. He
dropped his cigar in a shower of gray ash on to his trousers, and
retrieved it almost mechanically, his wide-open eyes fixed on the
other's face.
"What!" he cried.
Mr. Crump nodded gravely.
"You are Prince John of Mervo, and I am here--" he got into his stride
as he reached the familiar phrase--"to inform Your Highness that the
Republic has been dissolved, and that your subjects offer you the
throne of your ancestors."
A horrid doubt seized John.
"You're stringing me. One of those Indians at the _News_, Rupert
Smith, or someone, has put you up to this."
Mr. Crump appeared wounded.
"If Your Highness would glance at these documents-- This is a copy
of the register of the church in which your mother and father were
married."
John glanced at the document. It was perfectly lucid.
"Then--then it's true!" he said.
"Perfectly true, Your Highness. And I am here to inform--"
"But where the deuce is Mervo? I never heard of the place."
"It is an island principality in the Mediterranean, Your High--"
"For goodness' sake, old man, don't keep calling me 'Your Highness.' It
may be fun to you, but it makes me feel a perfect ass. Let me get into
the thing gradually."
Mr. Crump felt in his pocket.
"Mr. Scobell," he said, producing a roll of bills, "entrusted me with
money to defray any expenses--"
More than any words, this spectacle removed any lingering doubt which
John might have had as to the possibility of this being some intricate
practical joke.
"Are these for me?" he said.
Mr. Crump passed them across to him.
"There are a thousand dollars here," he said. "I am also instructed to
say that you are at liberty to draw further against Mr. Scobell's
account at the Wall Street office of the European and Asiatic Bank."
The name Scobell had been recurring like a _leit-motif_ in Mr.
Crump's conversation. This suddenly came home to John.
"Before we go any further," he said, "let's get one thing clear. Who is
this Mr. Scobell? How does he get mixed up in this?"
"He is the proprietor of the Casino at Mervo."
"He seems to be one of those generous, open-handed fellows. Nothing of
the tight wad about him."
"He is deeply interested in Your High--in your return."
John laid the roll of bills beside his coffee cup, and relighted his
cigar.
"That's mighty good of him," he said. "It strikes me, old man, that I
am not absolutely up-to-date as regards the internal affairs of this
important little kingdom of mine. How would it be if you were to put me
next to one or two facts? Start at the beginning and go right on."
When Mr. Crump had finished a condensed history of Mervo and Mervian
politics, John smoked in silence for some minutes.
"Life, Crump," he said at last, "is certainly speeding up as far as I
am concerned. Up till now nothing in particular has ever happened to
me. A couple of days ago I lost my job, was given ten thousand dollars
that I didn't know existed, and now you tell me I'm a prince. Well,
well! These are stirring times. When do we start for the old
homestead?"
"Mr. Scobell was exceedingly anxious that we should return by
Saturday's boat."
"Saturday? What, to-morrow?"
"Perhaps it is too soon. You will not be able to settle your affairs?"
"I guess I can settle my affairs all right. I've only got to pack a
grip and tip the bell hops. And as Scobell seems to be financing this
show, perhaps it's up to me to step lively if he wants it. But it's a
pity. I was just beginning to like this place. There is generally
something doing along the White Way after twilight, Crump."
The gravity of Mr. Scobell's secretary broke up unexpectedly into a
slow, wide smile. His eyes behind their glasses gleamed with a wistful
light.
"Gee!" he murmured.
John looked at him, amazed.
"Crump," he cried. "Crump, I believe you're a sport!"
Mr. Crump seemed completely to have forgotten his responsible position
as secretary to a millionaire and special messenger to a prince. He
smirked.
"I'd have liked a day or two in the old burg," he said softly. "I
haven't been to Rector's since Ponto was a pup."
John reached across the table and seized the secretary's hand.
"Crump," he said, "you _are_ a sport. This is no time for delay.
If we are to liven up this great city, we must get busy right away.
Grab your hat, and come along. One doesn't become a prince every day.
The occasion wants celebrating. Are you with me, Crump, old scout?"
"Sure thing," said the envoy ecstatically.
* * * * *
At eight o'clock on the following morning, two young men, hatless and a
little rumpled, but obviously cheerful, entered the Astor Hotel,
demanding breakfast.
A bell boy who met them was addressed by the larger of the two, and
asked his name.
"Desmond Ryan," he replied.
The young man patted him on his shoulder.
"I appoint you, Desmond Ryan," he said, "Grand Hereditary Bell Hop to
the Court of Mervo."
Thus did Prince John formally enter into his kingdom.