INTRODUCING PHIL CRANE
The new arrival was a man of possibly thirty years, with twinkling blue
eyes and brick-red hair. That his clothes were made of the best
material and were cut by an English tailor were facts not to be
gain-said, even by their tattered and torn and generally dilapidated
condition. One sleeve of his coat was in holes and scorched with
powder. He was hatless, and his hair, long and shaggy, tumbled about
his brow. There was no need to ask his nationality. He was an
Englishman--a travelled Englishman--since the two are very different
beings.
"My name is Crane--Philip Aloysius Crane," he announced as he
vigorously gripped Fenton's hand.
"Donald Fenton, at your service," said the Canadian.
"I am speechless, floored for lack of suitable words to express my
delight at meeting someone from the tight little island," declared
Philip Aloysius Crane. "You see I've been six months without hearing a
word of English spoken except by myself--and in the state of mind I've
been in I've been able to express myself only in terms of profanity.
So you'll understand these--er--ebullitions, my
unwonted--er--exuberance."
"You've got nothing on me just now," declared Fenton. "I started out
on an important mission without knowing a word of Ironian, except the
equivalent for 'faster'--and with the kind of driver I had that was the
one word I didn't need. I'm just beginning to realise that I'm
practically stranded."
"Then I'm just the man you're looking for," said Crane. "I talk
Ironian like a native; or no, hardly that. I talk it with my tongue
and not with my shoulders and eyebrows. If I can be of any service to
you as interpreter, command me."
"I've got to find my way into the hill country," explained Fenton. "If
you could come along with me it would solve the difficulty. But first
I ought to explain to you that it might prove a pretty dangerous
business."
Crane's weary face lighted up under its coating of dust.
"Danger! Why, my dear boy, that's what I've lived on for the last six
months," he declared. "Goodness knows, it's about all I've had in way
of sustenance up there in the oil country lately."
"The oil country?" This questioningly.
"Yes. You see I'm an engineer and supposed to know something about
oil. If you know anything of this country you are aware that they have
some big oil wells in the north-west section. As a matter of fact
they've got about the finest certified gold mine in those same oil
fields that I've ever seen, especially since the war broke out, and
they've been able to sell petroleum to Austria and Germany at war
prices.
"Another Englishman and myself signed on here three years ago," he went
on. "All the work is done under the superintendence of imported
engineers, mostly Austrian and German. Redfield and I were the only
Englishmen there, and he left over a year ago--lucky beggar! When the
war broke out things got pretty uncomfortable for me. You see, the
owners didn't want to lose the profits they make on shipping oil across
the border, and for that reason they've been fighting tooth and nail to
keep the country neutral. I came under suspicion naturally and I
suppose I was pretty outspoken. I had a dust-up pretty nearly every
day with some of the others, and finally, when I tried to get out of
the country to go home and enlist, they clapped me into jail. That was
six months ago, and I've been there ever since--a filthy hole with a
wooden bench as a bed and a family of toads as company. Four days ago
I persuaded one of the guards--with the bench--to let me go. I got
away safely enough, but one of the other guards nearly potted me.
Since then I've been beating my way back to civilisation, begging from
the peasants and sleeping under the glorious panoply of heaven. I
haven't a cent in my pockets. I haven't even a hat. Perhaps you will
now appreciate the faint stirring of pleasure that came over me when I
met a man who talked English--and had a motor-car!"
Fenton decided that he liked this Englishman and that he could safely
trust him. Accordingly he told Crane something of the mission which
was taking him to the hill country.
"Suits me down to the ground," said Crane, gripping Fenton's hand
again. "I'll go along as interpreter--anything at all so long as I get
my share of the scrapping. I've acquired a grouch against the whole
country that won't work off until I've battered my fists on some honest
Ironian faces. I've stayed here six months at their wish; now I'll
stay a few days longer on my own account and wipe off a few scores.
Besides I came out here with a sneaking hope that I'd meet with
romantic adventures of the Anthony Hope brand--you know, pink the
prince and marry the beautiful lady-in-waiting and all that sort of
thing. So far, the only Ironian women I've met have been honest
peasant bodies who looked on sour milk as a luxury."
At this point the old priest approached them and intimated that it had
been his intention to ask Mr Fenton to partake of his humble fare, and
perhaps the new-comer, too, would join them.
They accepted; Crane with a readiness that spoke eloquently of the
length of his fast. Fenton then hastily scribbled a note to Varden and
handed it to Jaleski.
"Tell him, Crane," he said, "that he's to get back to Serajoz as fast
as he can do it with any degree of safety. Tell him it's a matter of
life and death, but that he isn't to run any risk of killing himself
till after he's delivered that note."
Crane relayed the message to Jaleski, who acknowledged it with a deep
obeisance and climbed with alacrity into the driver's seat. The car
glided off and, with rapidly increasing speed, vanished into the
distance. The cloud of dust that marked its course showed that Jaleski
had understood fully the first part of the message, if not the last.
"Lord help anyone or anything that gets on the road between here and
Serajoz this day!" said Fenton.
They followed the priest to a vine-covered cottage standing beside the
village church. On entering they found themselves in a small room,
scrupulously clean and reflecting an atmosphere almost of culture
despite the cheapness of the sparse furnishings. A table and several
wooden chairs and a small case of unsized boards containing a few
ancient, much-used books were the chief articles that the room
contained. At one end was a stone fireplace, blackened by the smoke of
many score years. On the mantle above was a large crucifix. The table
was set for a frugal supper of dried goat meat, black bread and fruit.
The priest, with an air of earnest courtesy that might have graced the
most sumptuous of banquets, bade his guests be seated. A silent
serving-woman of rare old age but unimpaired activity placed two extra
plates and the necessary knives and forks. Neither Fenton nor Crane
needed any second bidding to fall to, for the former's appetite had
been whetted on the trip from the capital, and the latter had reached
the stage where a piece of dried leather would have seemed a toothsome
morsel. The priest ate sparingly himself and watched the prodigious
efforts of his young guests with a benevolent smile lurking in the fine
wrinkles that time had written around eyes and mouth.
"Reverend Father, I shall always rank you a good first on my list of
benefactors!" declared Crane with fervour when the last shred of food
had been consumed. "I've sat down to many a fine meal in my time, but
the memory of this will remain with me to my dying day. You've saved
my life."
"What it is to be young," assented the priest, with a gracious delight
in the exercise of his hospitality. "When youth and the good appetite
together go even the coarse fare of a humble priest can seem good. My
sons, it pleases me much your company to have."
"The pleasure is more than mutual," said Crane. "I assure you, Father,
that I shall tear myself away with great reluctance. I shudder at the
thought of our trip back into that hill country again. It is rough up
there."
"I have a friend in the hill country," said the priest. "A letter you
shall take to him and the best he has shall be yours."
Fenton, who had regretted every moment spent in the satisfying of even
so clamorous a possession as his appetite, now made a motion to get up.
"Father, you know the urgency of our mission, and will not think ill of
us if we lose no time in setting out," he declared. "The life of the
Princess Olga may depend upon our promptness."
The old priest restrained him with upraised hand, speaking in a low and
cautious tone.
"A word in your ear, my son," he said. "It would be well to depart
when no one sees. It shall be given out that you stay as my guests
to-night. After night falls you leave with a guide that I find."
"You mean that we might be spied upon?" asked Fenton.
The priest hesitated.
"Differences of opinion are found even in such small hamlets as ours,"
he said, with a trace of sadness. "Those are here--those who might
carry word ahead of your coming."
"You know best, I guess," said Fenton, endeavouring to accept the
priest's dictum with as little impatience as possible. "But how can I
stay here when I know she is in danger--that every minute counts?"
"It's common sense, though, Fenton," broke in Crane. "I've lived in
the country long enough to know that you've got to keep your business
strictly to yourself. In a matter of this kind you can't be too
cautious. If you want to be of real assistance in this matter you'll
have to keep cool for a few hours."
Fenton, who had risen during the discussion, sat down again. The
kindly priest laid a wrinkled hand on his arm with a gesture that was
almost a benediction.
"Listen, my son," he said. "By this time she whose safety we all wish
above everything else in the world far away has been carried. A man of
God who has brought the message to our people for fifty years, has
baptised the children, married the young people and shriven the dying,
knows much that goes on of which he cannot speak. A guide I know who
will take you where the Princess Olga is, and also he will lead you to
where is found Take Larescu."
"Larescu!" cried Crane in so loud a tone that the priest glanced
anxiously around and laid a warning finger on his lips. "You mean the
famous leader of the brigands, the king of the hills, the man who
defies any authority but his own, but who volunteered under another
name and fought in the Ironian army as a private all through the
Turkish War?"
The priest answered him in guarded tones, but with an inflection of
pride that no need for caution could subdue.
"Take Larescu is great patriot, great warrior, great friend of my
people, the poor peasants," he said. "Larescu has fought the rich
nobles, he has robbed and, God forgive him, has killed. He has sinned
much, but his good deeds are as the trees in the great forest. When
the war for the lost land comes Larescu will be at the front of battle.
He is wise, he knows much of the great world. He can save our
princess, young sir. To Larescu must you go first."
"The people who live in the mountains are almost a different race from
the rest of the people of Ironia," explained Crane to Fenton. "They're
a wild lot, with a gipsy strain in them. The government of Ironia has
completely failed to impose any legal restraints on them. They have
their own customs, their own laws, and a chief who rules them as
absolutely as any king that ever lived. But if war breaks out they'll
go and fight for Ironia to a man. And, Lord, how they can fight!
Their chief, Take Larescu, is a giant who can take on any three
ordinary men. I've heard stories of the wonderful things he has done
that you wouldn't believe, but which I know are more than half true.
Larescu is a combination of Theseus and Robin Hood, with a dash of
D'Artagnan thrown in. If our host can enlist his sympathies the rescue
of the lost princess will develop into a pleasant little picnic party."
The three men sat around the table and conversed in low tones as the
shades of evening settled down, the priest chaining the interest of his
guests with tales of Ironia's turbulent history, stories of Turkish
oppression, of wars fought for liberty, of feudal strife and
internecine struggle. In broken phrases that somehow embraced a
graphic power of vivid portrayal, he told the life story of a
down-trodden people only now groping on the threshold of nationhood.
"Drive the nobility and the oilcrats out of Ironia and you'd have the
makings of a great nation," said Crane, taking up the thread of
narrative where the priest left it. He proceeded to give a more
detailed account of his own experiences, telling of the vast extent of
the oil-fields and the huge profits that the owners were making. An
Ironian workman received a few pence a day, doing the work for which a
man elsewhere would receive as many dollars. The discipline was
severe, almost as rigid, in fact, as in a penal institution. The law
stopped practically at the boundary of the oil country; within that
limit the word of the owners was law.
The priest listened silently, bowing his head in sad assent to many of
the statements that the young Englishman made. Fenton also was silent,
hearing but little of the conversation. He sat back in his chair and
gloomily conjured up pictures of Olga in the power of the arch-villain,
Miridoff. And Wellington, on the crucial field of Waterloo, did not
long for night with greater intensity than did Fenton for the descent
of the sheltering darkness which would enable him to start out on his
quest.