It was characteristic of Mr. Philip Quentin that he first lectured
his servant on the superiority of mind over matter and then took him
cheerfully by the throat and threw him into a far corner of the
room. As the servant was not more than half the size of the master,
his opposition was merely vocal, but it was nevertheless
unmistakable. His early career had increased his vocabulary and his
language was more picturesque than pretty. Yet of his loyalty and
faithfulness, there could be no doubt. During the seven years of his
service, he had been obliged to forget that he possessed such a name
as Turkington or even James. He had been Turk from the beginning,
and Turk he remained--and, in spite of occasional out breaks, he had
proved his devotion to the young gentleman whose goods and chattels
he guarded with more assiduity than he did his own soul or--what
meant more to him--his personal comfort. His employment came about in
an unusual way. Mr. Quentin had an apartment in a smart building
uptown. One night he was awakened by a noise in his room. In the
darkness he saw a man fumbling among his things, and in an instant
he had seized his revolver from the stand at his bedside and covered
the intruder. Then he calmly demanded: “Now, what are you doing
here?”
“I'm lookin' for a boardin' house,” replied the other, sullenly.
“You're just a plain thief--that's all.”
“Well, it won't do me no good to say I'm a sleepwalker, will it?--er
a missionary, er a dream? But, on d' dead, sport, I'm hungry, an' I
wuz tryin' to git enough to buy a meal an' a bed. On d' dead, I
wuz.”
“And a suit of clothes, and an overcoat, and a house and lot, I
suppose, and please don't call me 'sport' again. Sit down--not oh
the floor; on that chair over there. I'm going to search you. Maybe
you've got something I need.” Mr. Quentin turned on the light and
proceeded to disarm the man, piling his miserable effects on a
chair. “Take off that mask. Lord! put it on again; you look much
better. So, you're hungry, are you?”
“As a bear.”
Quentin never tried to explain his subsequent actions; perhaps he
had had a stupid evening. He merely yawned and addressed the burglar
with all possible respect. “Do you imagine I'll permit any guest of
mine to go away hungry? If you'll wait till I dress, we'll stroll
over to a restaurant in the next street and get some supper.
“Police station, you mean.”
“Now, don't be unkind, Mr. Burglar. I mean supper for two. I'm
hungry myself, but not a bit sleepy. Will you wait?”
“Oh, I'm in no particular hurry.”
Quentin dressed calmly. The burglar began whistling softly.
“Are you ready?” asked Philip, putting on his overcoat and hat.
“I haven't got me overcoat on yet,” replied the burglar,
suggestively. Quentin saw he was dressed in the chilliest of rags.
He opened a closet door and threw him a long coat.
“Ah, here is your coat. I must have taken it from the club by
mistake. Pardon me.”
“T'anks; I never expected to git it back,” coolly replied the
burglar, donning the best coat that had ever touched his person.
“You didn't see anything of my gloves and hat in there, did you?” A
hat and a pair of gloves were produced, not perfect in fit, but
quite respectable.
Soberly they walked out into the street and off through the
two-o'clock stillness. The mystified burglar was losing his
equanimity. He could not understand the captor's motive, nor could
he much longer curb his curiosity. In his mind he was fully
satisfied that he was walking straight to the portals of the nearest
station. In all his career as a housebreaker, he had never before
been caught, and now to be captured in such a way and treated in
such a way was far past comprehension. Ten minutes before he was
looking at a stalwart figure with a leveled revolver, confidently
expecting to drop with the bullet in his body from an agitated
weapon. Indeed, he encountered conditions so strange that he felt a
doubt of their reality. He had, for some peculiar and amazing
reason, no desire to escape. There was something in the oddness of
the proceeding that made him wish to see it to an end. Besides, he
was quite sure the strapping young fellow would shoot if he
attempted to bolt.
“This is a fairly good eating house,” observed the would-be victim
as they came to an “all-nighter.” They entered and deliberately
removed their coats, the thief watching his host with shifty, even
twinkling eyes. “What shall it be, Mr. Robber? You are hungry, and
you may order the entire bill, from soup to the date line, if you
like. Pitch in.”
“Say, boss, what's your game?” demanded the crook, suddenly. His
sharp, pinched face, with its week's growth of beard, wore a new
expression--that of admiration. “I ain't such a rube that I don't
like a good t'ing even w'en it ain't comin' my way. You'se a dandy,
dat's right, an' I t'ink we'd do well in de business togedder. Put
me nex' to yer game.”
“Game? The bill of fare tells you all about that. Here's quail,
squab, duck--see? That's the only game I'm interested in. Go on, and
order.”
“S' 'elp me Gawd if you ain't a peach.”
For half an hour Mr. Burglar ate ravenously, Quentin watching him
through half-closed, amused eyes. He had had a dull, monotonous
week, and this was the novelty that lifted life out of the torpidity
into which it had fallen.
The host at this queer feast was at that time little more than
twenty-five years of age, a year out of Yale, and just back from a
second tour of South America. He was an orphan, coming into a big
fortune with his majority, and he had satiated an old desire to
travel in lands not visited by all the world. Now he was back in New
York to look after the investments his guardian had made, and he
found them so ridiculously satisfactory that they cast a shadow of
dullness across his mind, always hungry for activity.
“Have you a place to sleep?” he asked, at length.
“I live in Jersey City, but I suppose I can find a cheap lodgin'
house down by d' river. Trouble is, I ain't got d' price.”
“Then come back home with me. You may sleep in Jackson's room.
Jackson was my man till yesterday, when I dismissed him for stealing
my cigars and drinking my drinks. I won't have anybody about me who
steals. Come along.”
Then they walked swiftly back to Quentin's flat. The owner of the
apartment directed his puzzled guest to a small room off his own,
and told him to go to bed.
“By the way, what's your name?” he asked, before he closed the door.
“Turkington--James Turkington, sir,” answered the now respectful
robber. And he wanted to say more, but the other interrupted.
“Well, Turk, when you get up in the morning, polish those shoes of
mine over there. We'll talk it over after I've had my breakfast.
Good-night.”
And that is how Turk, most faithful and loyal of servants, began his
apparently endless employment with Mr. Philip Quentin, dabbler in
stocks, bonds and hearts. Whatever his ugly past may have been,
whatever his future may have promised, he was honest to a painful
degree in these days with Quentin. Quick-witted, fiery, willful and
as ugly as a little demon, Turk knew no law, no integrity except
that which benefitted his employer. Beyond a doubt, if Quentin had
instructed him to butcher a score of men, Turk would have proceeded
to do so and without argument. But Quentin instructed him to be
honest, law-abiding and cautious. It would be perfectly safe to
guess his age between forty and sixty, but it would not be wise to
measure his strength by the size of his body. The little ex-burglar
was like a piece of steel.