THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS--THE POISONED DAGGER.
As young Jack was sauntering through the streets of the town one day,
he fancied that he was being followed by a man who was dressed in a
semi-Oriental garb, but whose head was shaded by a broad-brimmed hat.
Jack was not given to fear without a cause, yet he certainly did feel
uncomfortable now.
At first he thought of turning round and facing the man sharply.
But this, he reflected, might lead to a rupture.
A rupture was to be most carefully avoided.
He was determined, however, to assure himself that he was followed.
With this view, he made a circuitous tour of the city.
Still the man was there like his very shadow.
"This is unendurable," muttered Jack.
So he drew up short.
Grasping a pistol, which he carried in his pocket, with a nervous grip,
he waited for the man to come up.
But the man did not come up.
He disappeared suddenly, at the very moment that Jack was expecting to
come into collision with him.
How strange!
Jack was not conscious of having an enemy--at least not one in that
part of the world.
"Very strange," he muttered; "very strange!"
And brooding over this episode, Jack wended his way thoughtfully
homewards.
* * * *
"Hah!"
Crossing the very threshold of his residence, Jack was suddenly and
swiftly assaulted.
The same semi-Oriental figure had stolen stealthily up behind him, and
with a murderous-looking knife dealt him a sharp, swift blow.
Jack bounded forward, and turned round pistol in hand, but so nearly
fatal had been the blow that Jack's coat was ripped down the back.
"Hah!"
The assassin was marvellously nimble; although Jack made a dart after
him pistol in hand, meaning to wreak summary vengeance upon him, the
ruffian contrived to vanish again--mysteriously.
Strangely disturbed by this, Jack went home and related to his friends
what had taken place.
"This is a rum go," said Mr. Mole; "you have been mistaken for somebody
else."
"So I suppose," returned Jack.
"What's to be done?" said Harry Girdwood.
"Lodge information with the police at once, I should say," suggested
Mole.
"By all means."
"What was he like?"
"I could scarcely see," was Jack's reply, "for he was gone like a
phantom."
"Perhaps it was a phantom," suggested Harry slily.
"I should be half inclined to think so," said Jack, "if I hadn't
received this solid proof that he was flesh and blood."
Saying which, he turned round and displayed the back of his coat,
ripped open by the assassin's dagger.
"Well," exclaimed Mole aghast, "that is cool."
"I'm glad you think so," returned Jack, "for I can tell you it was much
too warm for me."
"Well, we shall soon leave this wretched place, I hope," said Mole,
"for I don't feel safe of my life. I am expecting every day to be had
up again before the pasha."
"We must always be on the watch now," said Harry Girdwood; "constant
vigilance will he necessary to avert danger."
* * * *
Let us follow the movements of the would-be assassin.
The secret of his sudden disappearance was really no great mystery
after all.
Darting round the first corner so as to put a house between himself and
Jack's pistol, he found himself suddenly seized by a vigorous hand, and
dragged through an open doorway.
"Let go," hissed the assassin, fiercely, "or----"
He raised his long-bladed knife to strike, but before he could bring
his arm down, the dagger was beaten from his grasp.
"Now," said the stranger planting his foot firmly upon the knife,
"listen to me."
"You speak English," said the assassin, in surprise.
"Because you spoke English to me," was the reply; "until then, I took
you for one of us."
"What do you want with me?" demanded the Englishman, doggedly.
"Not much," returned the other, speaking with great fluency, although
his foreign accent was strongly marked. "I have saved you from the
consequences of your failure. Had my friendly hand not been there to
drag you out of sight, your young countryman would have shot you."
"Well," returned the assassin, surlily, "I owe you my thanks, and----"
"Stop--tell me would you like to succeed in this in spite of your late
failure?"
"Yes."
"Then I will give you a safe and sure method."
"My eternal thanks," began the foiled ruffian.
The stranger interrupted him.
"Reserve your thanks. Tell me what you can offer if I help you."
"Money!"
"How much will you give to see your enemy removed from your path?"
"I will give a good round sum," returned the Englishman, eagerly.
"Name a sum."
He did.
A good round sum it was too.
"Now, then," said the Turk, producing a small phial containing a pale
greenish fluid. "Observe this."
"Well?"
"Anoint your dagger with this. Scratch him with it; let your scratch be
no more than the prick of a pin, and he will be beyond the aid of
mortal man."
"Is this sure?"
"Beyond all doubt. Would you have proof?"
"Yes."
"Wait here a moment."
The Turk left the room, and presently he appeared carrying a small iron
cage.
"Look."
He held up the cage, and showed that it contained two large rats.
"Now," said he, "remove the stopper and dip your dagger's point in."
The Englishman obeyed.
"Now, prick either of the rats ever so slightly."
The Englishman pushed the point of the dagger through the bars of the
cage, and one of the rats came to sniff at it--probably anticipating a
savoury tit-bit to eat.
Moving the dagger slightly, it barely grazed the rat's nose.
But it sufficed.
The poor beast shivered once, and sank dead.
"What do you say now?" demanded the Turk.
"I am satisfied," replied the Englishman.
"Now, before you go," said the Turk, "I will give you a hint. The
slightest scratch will suffice, as you see."
"Yes."
"Dip two ordinary pins in the poison, and send them by letter to your
enemy. Place them so that in opening the envelope, he will probably
scratch his finger."
The Englishman's eyes sparkled viciously.
"I will, I will."
"Let me know the result, and should you want my aid, you will note well
the house on leaving so as to know where to return."
"Yes. What is your name?" demanded the Englishman.
"Hadji Nasir Ali," was the reply; "and yours?"
The other hesitated.
"Don't give it unless you feel it is safe," said the Turk.
"There's no harm in your knowing it," returned the Englishman. "My name
is Harkaway."
"Hark-a-way?"
"In one word."
"I see. Farewell, then."
"Farewell."
And the interview was concluded.
* * * *
"That letter is a splendid dodge. Look out, Master Jack Harkaway, look
out, for I mean to cry quits now, or my name is not Herbert Murray,"
muttered the Englishman, as he walked away.
But how Herbert Murray had got to Turkey requires some explanation.
It will be within our readers' recollection that after his unsuccessful
attempt on Chivey's life, and the adventure of the groom with the old
Spaniard, Murray found himself on board the same ship as his groom.
He resolved to make the best of this circumstance, as it could not now
be altered.
A few days after leaving the Spanish coast they put into one of the
Mediterranean ports, and there heard that young Jack and his friends
had gone on to Turkey.
"I'll follow them!" exclaimed Murray. "I can do as I like now the
governor's gone and I've plenty of tin, so look out for yourself, Jack
Harkaway."
Murray's ship was delayed by adverse weather, but at length reached
port, and Herbert had scarcely put foot on shore, when he beheld young
Jack, the object of his deadly hate, walking coolly down the street
smoking a cigar.
This so enraged Murray that he hastened to disguise himself in Oriental
attire, and then made the attempt on Jack's life which we have related.
* * * *
That same night a man was found dead on the threshold of the house in
which Jack Harkaway and his friends resided.
How he had died no one could imagine, for he had not a scratch on his
body.
Yet, stay.
There was a scratch.
Just that and no more.
In his fast-clenched hand was found an envelope addressed to Mr. John
Harkaway, and on a closer examination a pin's point was seen sticking
through the paper.
This had just pricked the messenger's hand.
So slightly that, had not the tiny wound turned slightly blue, it would
have entirely escaped notice.
* * * *
Jack was now aware that he had in Turkey a deadly enemy, but who he was
he could not yet tell.
When the men of skill assembled around the body, they were puzzled to
assign a cause of death until one of them suggested it was apoplexy. So
apoplexy it was unanimously set down for.
There was no more fuss made.
The man was only a poor devil of a Circassian, who got a precarious
livelihood as a public messenger. So they
"Rattled his bones
Over the stones,
Like those of a pauper whom nobody owns."
And meanwhile, his murderer went his way.
"Fortunate I gave the name of Harkaway to that old professional
poisoner, for they will never trace this job to me."
There was, however, one result from this using of Jack Harkaway's name
which Herbert Murray certainly never contemplated.
But of this we must speak hereafter.
* * * *
In spite of his knowledge of the fact that he had enemies following his
footsteps, our hero would not remain in the house.
"I am quite as safe in the street as here," said he, in reply to Harry
Girdwood's representations of the danger he ran, "and I am sure, old
boy, you would not have me show the white feather."
"You never did that, and never will; but you need not run into
unnecessary danger."
"'Thrice is he armed who has his quarrel just,' and his revolver well
loaded. Ta-ta! I am just going to stroll down to this Turkish
substitute for a postoffice, and see if last night's steamer brought
any letters."
So Jack strolled down accordingly, and found a letter for him.
His heart beat with joy as he recognised the handwriting, and he
hurried home to read it.
On breaking open the envelope, out tumbled a beautiful carte de visite
portrait, a copy of which we are able to give, as we still thoroughly
retain young Jack's friendship and confidence.
He kissed it till he began to fear he might spoil the likeness, and
then placing it on the table before him, began to read.
And this is the letter--
"DEAR JACK,--_You very naughty boy. Where have you been,
and why have you not written? I have a great mind to scold you,
sir; but on second thoughts, I think I had better leave the task of
correcting you to your parents, who, perhaps, have more influence
with you than I have. You don't know, dear, how anxious we have all
been about you. Poor Mr. Mole has started in search of you. Have
you seen him yet?--and if you don't write soon, I shall feel
obliged to try and find out what has become of you, for I almost
begin to fear that some fair Turkish or Circassian girl_----"
"The deuce!" Jack thought; "she can't have heard any thing of that
affair yet. If Mole has written, the letter could not have reached
England on the 20th of last month."
Then he continued--
"----_has stolen your heart, and Harry Girdwood's too. Why, poor
Paquita always has red eyes when she gets up. So, darling Jack, do
write at once, and cheer our hearts. I can't help writing like
this, for I feel so fearful that something has happened to you. So
be a dear, good boy, and send a full account of all your doings to
your father, and just a few lines to
"Your ever faithful and affectionate._
"EMILY.
"_P.S.--I was just reading this over to see if I had been too
cross, when your father came in with a photographer, who took my
portrait without my knowing anything about it. Do you think it like
me, sir?_"
Then followed three or four of those blots which ladies call "kisses."