A CANADIAN IN SERAJOZ
CHAPTER II.
THE ROYAL BALL
CHAPTER III.
DARING PROPOSALS
CHAPTER IV.
THE MEETING OF FOUR NATIONS
CHAPTER V.
AN ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION
CHAPTER VI.
THE KING'S COMMAND
CHAPTER VII.
GENERAL LEBRUN
CHAPTER VIII.
THE QUARREL
CHAPTER IX.
A NIGHT OF RIOTS
CHAPTER X.
FATE & CO
CHAPTER XI.
THE ABDUCTION
CHAPTER XII.
INTRODUCING PHIL CRANE
CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE HILL COUNTRY
CHAPTER XIV.
TAKE LARESCU
CHAPTER XV.
THE TRUMP CARD
CHAPTER XVI.
THE RESCUING PARTY
CHAPTER XVII.
THE RENUNCIATION
CHAPTER XVIII.
TWO FIGHT: ONE FALLS
CHAPTER XIX.
MARRIED OVER THE TONGS
CHAPTER XX.
THE PLOT DISCOVERED
CHAPTER XXI.
PLANNING A FUTURE
CHAPTER XXII.
IRONIA INVADED
CHAPTER XXIII.
CRANE'S ESCAPE
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE NEW KING
CHAPTER XXV.
THE ASSASSINATION
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE DEATH OF THE KING
CHAPTER XXVII.
A LETTER OF FAREWELL
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE REUNION
CHAPTER I
A CANADIAN IN SERAJOZ
On a sunny spring day in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred
and fifteen, a fiacre drove up to a big house in the Lodz, the winding,
crescent-shaped street in Serajoz, the capital of Ironia, in which were
to be found the Embassies and the residences of the wealthier class.
There was nothing singular, apparently, in that particular fiacre
driving up to that particular house. Fiacres in scores drove up there
and drove away again day after day the year through and occasioned
little remark. Yet if certain influential gentlemen in Ironia had
known who it was that jumped out of the fiacre on that sunny spring
day, and if these influential Ironians had had the gift of prophetic
vision in superlative degree, they might have taken some action to
prevent him from reaching the house of Baroness Draschol and her
husband, Mr Percival Varden. And then, perhaps, this story would never
have been written, because Ironia might never have----But this is
anticipating.
The fiacre stopped. Almost before all motion had ceased, a tall,
alert-looking young man jumped out and, fishing out a handful of coins
from his pocket, implored the driver to take what was his due. The
driver knew him for an American or an Englishman, or anything but an
Ironian, and, carefully abstracting from the outstretched palm the
equivalent of twice the legitimate fare, drove away with a smile on his
face and a blessing upon foreigners who had not the gift of tongues.
The young man stood on the sidewalk a moment. Then, with the quick
step which characterises the man of action, he strode up the narrow
path to the house and rang the bell. It was answered by a pompous
individual, resplendent in a dull strawberry-coloured plush suit, who,
with the combination of obsequiousness and dignity which can be found
only in the lackey in the Balkans, ushered the caller into a
reception-room and retired with his card.
The young man looked around him appreciatively. The splendid paintings
which adorned the walls, the luxurious hangings, the rich, deep carpet,
the handsome lounge on which he was sitting, all appeared to surprise
him.
"Some change from that den of Varden's in Montreal," he murmured.
The curtains at the end of the room parted and a tall, well-groomed man
of about thirty-five came quickly across the floor with outstretched
hands.
"Don Fenton, by all that's holy!" he exclaimed, pumping his visitor's
hands up and down with vigorous exuberance.
"Percy Varden, by all that's--er--profane!" said Fenton, with equal
enthusiasm.
"Old Don Fenton!" repeated Varden, slapping the other on the back and
beaming on him with real affection. "And in Serajoz, of all places!"
"A pretty good place to be, if I'm to judge by your surroundings," said
Fenton. "You must be a deputy-sultan at least, Yarden, to live in such
state."
"Ironia isn't a bad place, Don," said Varden, with sudden soberness.
"Or at least it won't be if a certain event comes to pass. If that
certain event doesn't happen, I intend to leave all this"--he made a
broad gesture to indicate the luxurious room in which they stood--"and
find a place for myself in the line with the boys in khaki. When your
country's at war, it's hard to be an exile."
"I'm on my way back for that very same purpose," affirmed Fenton
warmly. "When the war broke I was in Hungary, and I just escaped the
detention camp by two hours. I got over into Russia after a series of
adventures--dead broke. I had a letter of credit, of course, but it
was gold that was needed. It took me a long time to establish my
identity and convert my paper into gold currency. Then I came down
through the Balkans on my way home and decided to drop off and see you
here in Ironia. And here I am."
"But," said Varden, "what I want to know is how you ever got to Europe
in the first place. What's the meaning of all this glib talk of
letters of credit and gold currency? Last I heard of you, you were
trying to convince the Canadian public that at last Eldorado had been
discovered--in the form of subdivisions in Saskatchewan. And I judged
from your letters that the public had developed an unwonted degree of
scepticism."
"Then you haven't heard of my good fortune?"
"Why, no, I guess I haven't. What's happened?"
"An uncle of mine died and very unexpectedly left me several million
dollars. I considered myself justified under the circumstances in
following the bottom of the real estate market; that is, dropping out."
"Then you are _the_ Fenton," declared Varden, shaking hands again. "I
read something in a New York paper about a young Canadian coming into a
big pile, but I never thought it would be you. Why, that possibility
never entered my mind. Congratulations, old man, congratulations!"
"The congratulations should be mutual, Varden," said Fenton. "I
remember when one Percival Varden was getting his fifteen per week, and
wasn't worth that any more than I was my twelve per--according to that
honest gentleman, that fair-minded director of budding journalists,
George W. Jackson, city editor of the _News Despatch_--the unspeakable
cur!"
"Then time hasn't cured you of your reverence for dear old Jackson--the
ill-bred beast!" said Varden, with a laugh that ended in a growl.
"No, I'll never give up my grudge until I have a chance to assign
Jackson to cover an August excursion to Hades. They would never let
him come back."
"Still, they were happy days in Montreal, weren't they?" said Varden.
"But I guess I ought to explain about my good fortune. I returned to
England and met Baroness Draschol in London. We fell in love, and that
wonderful woman overlooked my personal deficiencies, my poverty and my
lack of position, and actually married me! My wife is connected with
the royal family of Ironia and owns so much property I haven't found
out about it all yet. And yet she married me, poor old hack scribbler
that I was. Fenton, when you meet her you'll wonder too how it could
ever have happened. I've been married three years and I'm still dazed
at my wonderful good fortune."
"Three years married and still in the raving state!" jeered Fenton.
"One week generally serves to translate a bridegroom from that
condition. Varden, you must be the luckiest fellow in the world."
"I am," affirmed Varden emphatically. "But wait until you see Sonia.
She'll be delighted to meet you. We've often talked about you. And by
Jove, Don, you are looking well!"
Fenton was about thirty years of age--a handsome fellow in a healthy,
outdoor sort of way. He stood over six feet, broad-shouldered and
straight-limbed. Set him in a crowd in any country of dark-pigmented,
short-statured men and he stood out by contrast like a Norse god. It
is not likely that any woman would ever refuse him the tribute of a
second glance. And yet Fenton was not in any sense a lady's man. The
firm mouth, the strong jaw and clear eye told of resolve, of
determination, of self-reliance. He had a finely chiselled face, a
frank, clean, open face. Fenton was a manly man. It was said of him
that he stood four-square to every wind that blew.
"Married yet?" went on Varden.
"No," replied the other.
"Then you've no one with you? No ties, no one whose wishes or whims
you must consider?"
"Free as the air of the Western prairies," returned Fenton. "Why?"
"Well, if you can stay over and if you have the same taste for
excitement that you had in the old days, I can gratify it for you,
that's all."
"Tell me what it is all about. And, by the way, what are your people
in Ironia going to do? Going to join us in this war? I heard a lot of
talk about it as I came through Russia. Ironia seems to have been
pretty well featured in the newspapers lately."
Varden looked around, then drew his chair closer to Fenton's.
"That's just the excitement I spoke of, Don," he said. "Ironia is
going to figure in the war; that part of it is certain. But on which
side? There are two factions in the country, and at the present time
we are fighting like wild cats to determine the policy of the country.
Both sides are determined to win; and let me tell you, Don, they take
their politics hard in this land. It's a fight to the bitter end in
which lives are not counted of any great importance.
"I guess you know pretty well how matters stand in Ironia," he went on.
"The people as a whole are heart and soul with the Allies. Austria
holds Serania and Mulkovina, two provinces that used to be part of
Ironia. What Alsace and Lorraine are to France, these two provinces
are to Ironia. It is certain that if the Allies win Russia will seize
both Serania and Mulkovina, and then Ironia's chance of bringing her
sons and daughters in the lost provinces back into the fold will have
been lost for ever. Russia offers us the two provinces as the price of
throwing in our lot with the Allies. Ironians see that it is their
only chance and they clamour for war on Austria."
"But," said Varden, speaking cautiously, "there is one obstacle. King
Alexander of Ironia is dead against the Allies. His sympathies are all
with the Teutonic alliance. And he is possibly, next to the Kaiser,
the most absolute monarch in Europe to-day. The envoys of Germany and
Austria are camping on his doorstep, urging him to join them. He would
throw the weight of Ironian intervention into the scales against the
Allies to-morrow if he were not afraid of the feeling of his subjects.
Fearing to act according to the dictates of his own mind, he
nevertheless refuses to obey the clearly expressed mandate of the
people and strike a blow for the restoration of the lost provinces."
"Does the King stand alone?" asked Fenton.
"By no means," replied Varden. "There is a faction that stands by him,
composed of a number of the nobles and the Austrian section of the
country. The majority of the nobles, practically all of the business
classes and the common people _en masse_ favour an alliance with
England, France and Russia. Needless to state, I am with the latter
faction. I am, in fact, right in the thick of it--sort of a lieutenant
to Prince Peter, the King's brother, who acts as leader of the popular
cause, and who is, by the way, the strongest man in the country. It's
a great fight, Don--intrigues, plots and counterplots, with secret
societies on both sides, duels, assassinations and all the other
properties necessary to a Balkan imbroglio. One never knows when a
bullet may not come his way or a knife find lodgment between his
shoulder-blades."
Varden had risen and was pacing up and down the room excitedly. He
paused in front of his guest.
"Do you remember the thrill you get in a fight for a big news story?"
he asked. "That's all child's play in comparison with this game."
Fenton stood up in turn and faced his friend.
"I intend to place myself at the disposal of my country," he said.
"I've been wondering how I could serve best--by enlisting in England,
or by staying right here and helping in the fight to bring Ironia into
line with the allied cause. If you think I could be of any use,
Varden, I would like to figure in the fight here. Every cent I've got,
my own time, my life, if necessary, are at your disposal."
"Great!" cried Varden, wringing Fenton's hand for the third time. "Can
you be of assistance, boy? I wish I had a hundred like you. And a
little cash won't be amiss either. Count yourself in from now on.
You've enlisted in the cause."
"Well, what's the next move?" asked Fenton, impatient for action and
eager for a closer acquaintance with the thrilling experiences of
Ironian intrigue.
"Have patience, you old fire-eater," admonished Varden with an amused
smile. "There's a ball at the palace to-night. I'll get an invitation
for you and probably I'll be able to introduce you to some of the
leading characters in the drama. They'll all be there. All you'll
have to do this time will be to keep your eyes and cars open."
As Fenton walked down the steps and into the waiting fiacre, he smiled
to himself. "Don Fenton, diplomat, is a new one," he said. "But one
man in his time plays many parts. I guess it will be more exciting
than reporting or selling real estate, anyway."