SAVING THE SATCHEL.
There were certainly enough dramatic elements concentrated in that
critical moment to make it an epoch of my life, long to be marked with
a white cross.
Those in the garden were throwing whatever they could lay hands on, and
if the shower of missiles such as adobe bricks and broken flowerpots
was not overwhelming it could be laid to the scarcity of material
rather then any lack of desire on the part of the excited participants.
One fellow appeared to have a gun of some sort, and began banging away
with a recklessness that gave me a cold chill.
True, I had no fear of his aim, but there was always danger from an
accidental hit, for I had seen greenhorns bring the largest fish to
net, and knew the quality of luck.
I had an idea one or two of the bolder spirits among the alcalde’s
guests were endeavoring to climb to the roof of the toolhouse, a feat
only to be accomplished by the most athletic.
These things, vexatious as they certainly were, could not keep me from
devoting my whole energies toward the task now engaging my attention.
In fact, they were of no greater moment than a swarm of angry bees
buzzing about my ears.
Perhaps Hildegarde might have ventured to make some remonstrance
had I given her an opportunity to do so; but my prompt action swept
everything before it.
I would not dare attempt to analyze the very peculiar feeling that came
over me at the magnetic touch of her person; I had steeled my heart to
resist all influences of this kind, and foolishly believed I was strong
enough to approach this woman as calmly and indifferently as though she
were a stranger.
Alas! I realized my mistake as I crushed her almost savagely in my
arms; surely there was hardly any necessity for such a bear’s hug.
Would she notice my unnecessary fervor, and in her soul despise me for
such weakness?
The thought, coming with electrical swiftness, made me strong again; I
could not bear her scorn or contempt.
So I lowered her over the parapet of the wall, seeking to so arrange
it that her feet might rest upon the upper round of the unseen ladder.
She seemed quite self-possessed, and aided me by grasping the top of
the wall.
“The ladder--have you found it?” I called in her ear, close to my lips.
“Yes--yes--let me go!” she panted.
Perhaps other reasons influenced her--perhaps she was even anxious for
my safety; but in the perversity of my heart I chose to believe that it
was the desire to be free from the hateful clasp of my arms.
Promptly I released her. The rope was still with me, and I held on to
that, planting myself firmly against the parapet of the adobe wall,
so that I might be in a position to bear a shock should she by any
mischance lose her footing.
While I lowered away, unconsciously breathing a prayer of thanks
with each yard gained, I became conscious of the fact that the mixed
assemblage in the garden had found a new supply of missiles, for all
manner of things rattled about me, and several times I was struck quite
heavily.
But nothing turned me from my grim determination to carry out my
project to the very end. A sigh of relief escaped me when I realized
from the sudden slackening of the rope that Hildegarde was safely
deposited upon the pavement outside.
Now I could pay attention to my own case.
It was high time.
One of the bold climbers had managed to gain the roof of the toolhouse.
He was just staggering to his feet, and I could see in the faint light
from the lanterns carried by those in the gardens, that he wore some
sort of gorgeous uniform.
Then it flashed across me that this could be no other than the
illustrious Gen. Toreado, commander-in-chief of the grand army of
several hundred barefoot soldiers, a man who had been a soldier of
fortune all his life, leader in ten revolutions, and one not to be
lightly offended.
It was not my intention at that particular moment to tarry there--I had
no reason to desire an interview with the ferocious old fire eater who
was wont to go raging up and down like a burning brand, through these
wonderful little Central American republics.
My hand was on the parapet of the wall, and I knew I could reach the
ladder and hustle down to apparent safety before the general could
scramble over the gently sloping room to prevent me.
This I was just in the act of doing, when of a sudden I remembered
something.
It was that confounded satchel!
I had, of course, laid it down, the better to place Hildegarde on the
ladder.
To abandon it was not to be considered for even an instant.
What would she say to me? It contained perhaps her jewels--yes, and
there was that silver picture frame inclosing the photo of my lucky
successor. Surely these things were worth risking my life for.
At any rate, I did not take the time to think over the matter--a man is
bound to act pretty much on impulse in such a case.
I abandoned all present ideas of retreat, and instead, sounded the
charge.
No doubt that sturdy old war horse Gen. Toreado, was considerably
surprised when I gave an Indian yell and descended upon him with all
the fury of a young tornado.
I did not mean he should have any chance to draw a weapon, not caring
to spit myself, carried forward by the violence of my rush, upon his
Toledo blade.
He was a much older man than I, but a soldier must take hard knocks as
they come, and it was neither the time nor place to solve questions of
military etiquette.
I rammed him good and hard, meaning to clear the deck in one round.
The general had doubtless found considerable difficulty in making the
ascent, for he was still breathing heavily when I ran up against him.
It was much easier going down.
All he had to do was to spread out his legs and arms like a huge
jumping frog, take a lovely somersault, and, presto! the thing was done.
If one looks far enough there is usually adequate compensation for all
laborious efforts.
But I am of the opinion that the venerable fire eater never fully
realized how striking an example of equation I solved when I tumbled
him so neatly from the roof of the toolshed; and should I ever have the
misfortune to fall into his hands, something besides gratitude would
mark his action toward me.
Of course, I had not the slightest idea of ever becoming his prisoner.
Another head had cropped up above the edge of the roof, but when I made
a dash in that quarter, the fellow let go in a hurry, and crashed down
on those who were so industriously boosting him from below.
All of this in plain view of the alcalde and his merry guests, who were
almost beside themselves with astonishment and rage.
The missiles flew hotter than ever, a perfect bombardment of Fort
Sumter, so to speak; but my mind was now set upon finding the precious
bag, and I did not even try to dodge the magnificent assortment of
decayed vegetables, adobe bricks and miscellaneous gardener’s tools
that clattered upon the roof.
Could I have unconsciously kicked the satchel overboard when I made my
furious rush for the doughty general?
This was my first thought when I failed to locate it immediately.
Singularly enough, the loss of the exasperating thing affected me
tremendously--I even dreaded the thought of facing the owner again
without my trust. What would she say, and how her tears must flow for
that lost photo in the silver frame--hang him!
Then sudden joy--an object caught my eye that looked suspiciously like
the bag.
I pounced upon it with an eagerness born of despair, and almost shouted
“hallelujah!” when I found it was what I sought.
Now to conduct a masterly retreat.
No one else had as yet appeared on the roof, and apparently my enemies
had ceased to worry me for a brief interval.
I tried to do everything decently and in order, but found it convenient
to make each second tell, for I had already received several knocks
from various missiles, thrown with more or less vigor, and there was
danger lest one might do me irreparable damage.
When I flung myself over the wall, I was at first unable to find the
ladder--my swaying feet struck only an empty void, and the awful
thought came into my head that perhaps enemies had arrived in the
_calle_ and removed my only means of escape.
Just then, however, I heard a voice which I recognized even in the
midst of the riotous proceedings as belonging to Robbins:
“To the left--only a foot or so--to the left!” was what he shouted.
Of course, I knew this was for my guidance--that he had seen my
ineffectual search for the ladder, and was bent on telling me where it
lay.
So I readily found footing, and lost no time in sliding down to the
ground, where Robbins caught me in his arms, and set me on my feet.
It was just as well, for my head had begun to spin a little, possibly
from the effect of a collision with an adobe brick that had not been
any too soft.
“Why did you go back?” asked a voice, close to my ear--Hildegarde’s
voice.
“To get the satchel,” I replied, grimly, “and to do it I had to tumble
that magnificent old Gen. Toreado from the roof.”
“It was splendid; but, oh, so foolish of you!”
That served as an enigma for me, and often I pondered upon its
possibilities, without being able to decide just what she meant to
imply.
But Robbins, like a sensible fellow, had no idea of letting us stay
there a second more than was absolutely necessary for me to get my wind.
“Come, let’s dust it,” he said; “the beggars are bearing down on us
yonder.”
What he said was only actual truth, for a crowd was coming down the
_calle_, uttering all sorts of cries, and ready to give us more trouble
than we were prepared to face.
So we ran.