HOW SAMSON CEREAL STOLE A BRIDE IN TURKEY.
Craig turns and looks squarely in the face of his companion. His
Canadian sense of humor does not grasp the situation as readily as
would have been the case with an American, but gradually a smile creeps
over his countenance.
“Then if luck follows you, my dear Claude, I shall know where to go if
I want to make a loan,” he says, and the other joins in the laugh.
“Perhaps you’ll give me credit for having a long head when you know
_all_,” pursues Wycherley, with a mysterious nod.
“Then there is still something more back of it?”
“I should say so. This brain-racking mental calculation is only a means
to an end. Should the plan carry out I’m a goner,” with a sigh.
“Come, this is very unlike you, my dear fellow, to keep one in suspense
so long. If there’s a story back of it all, let’s have it. You always
found me a sympathetic listener. Come, wet your lips with a mug of
this French cider, served by a divinity in wooden shoes, and then I’ll
listen to your tale of woe.”
When this ceremony has been completed, they saunter toward the great
Ferris wheel near by, which continues to revolve, its electric-lighted
arch spanning the heavens, the most remarkable object in this feast of
wonders.
“Now, tell me what you mean by a 'goner.’ If your plans carry, you
ought to be happy, Claude.”
“True, true; but you see I’m now thirty-three, and I’ve been _so_
free from care. It will be a tremendous thing for me to assume the
responsibility for another,” sighs the Chicagoan.
“Ah, I see! you intend taking a partner.”
“For weal or woe,” groaning.
“Not get married, my boy?”
“I’m afraid there’s some truth in it, though the matter rests on
certain conditions. Do you know, it worries me considerably?”
“I should think it would. You have been a regular Bohemian, living
from hand to mouth, always cheerful and contented. Now you will have to
turn over a new leaf and go to work.”
“Perhaps so; but somehow you’ve got the cart before the horse. It has
happened before now that the wife has supported the husband.”
“Wycherley, I didn’t think that of you.”
“Well,” resumes the other with a little laugh, “I suppose I’d have
my hands full looking after her stocks and bonds, as a sort of agent
or manager. That is one reason I’ve devoted myself to the markets so
assiduously of late--ever since the subject has been broached, in fact.”
“Then the lady is--ahem--very wealthy?”
“Im--_mensely_ so.”
“Accept my congratulations, Wycherley. May you----”
“Hold on, Aleck, my boy; it isn’t all settled yet.”
“Father object?”
“I’m not bothering much about him.”
“Then you mean the day hasn’t been set. That’s a difficulty easily
overcome, my boy.”
The retired Thespian gives a melo-dramatic groan.
“Confound it all! thanks to this modesty on my part, though I’ve seen
the dear girl dozens of times, I’ve never dared address her.”
Craig remains silent. In his mind he is resolving the question of his
friend’s sanity. He has known him for a jolly dog in times gone by, but
his eccentricities as revealed on this occasion certainly stamp him the
most astonishing and original fellow Craig has ever met.
“See here, Wycherley, you’re bent on muddling me up to-night. Explain
this puzzle. How is it you are bent on marrying a girl to whom, as
you confess, you have never even been introduced?” he finally demands
somewhat shortly, as if a suspicion has flashed across his brain that
the other may be guying him--Craig has had previous acquaintance with
such practical jokes as Americans love to play.
“Oh, he will fix all that!” returns Claude, knocking the ashes from his
pipe, with a manner that speaks of remarkable _sang froid_.
“He? You will have to explain who is meant. Have you entered into a
league with the father?”
“Great Scott! no. It’s Aroun Scutari, the Turk.”
“Ah, I know him! I saw you talking with him. Has he a daughter?”
“Heaven knows. He has a harem full of wives over in Stamboul. That’s
how it all came about, you see.”
“But I don’t see. I’m as much in the dark as ever. Now, if you prefer
not to take me into your confidence----”
“Aleck, on the contrary I am delighted with the chance. Something about
this business goes against my grain. I’ve always been a rolling stone,
a harum-scarum sort of fellow, but I don’t know that I ever did a bad
deed in my life. Yes, I believe your running across me to-night is a
blessing. You can be a father confessor.”
“Thanks.”
“And having heard my little lay, tell me whether it would be awful
wicked for me to win a wife by such fraud. Understand in the beginning,
my intentions are honorable. If I refuse the job someone else will take
it, and Samson Cereal’s daughter be won by a wretch who will abuse
his privilege. Hence, though sworn to bachelorhood, I have deemed it
my duty to put aside my scruples and----Jove! I’ve been forgetting
myself--what time have you?”
“Just a quarter to nine.”
Wycherley shrugs his shoulders.
“Then the time has come. I question my nerve to carry out the
contract,” he mutters.
“Contract?” echoes the Canadian athlete.
Wycherley is looking at him steadily, as though possessed of a sudden
notion.
“I believe he’d do it,” is what he mutters, as he surveys Aleck’s
muscular, well-knit figure, and then casts a glance of scorn at his own
stout form.
“Craig, have you been on the wheel to-night?” he asks suddenly.
“No, and I confess it was my intention to go up before leaving. I’ve
been waiting for a moon as near the full as we could get it overhead.
If you’ll go as my guest, I accept.”
“Nonsense. I told you I worked there--all the boys are known to me.
Besides, it will be so arranged that you and I shall occupy a car
alone. Then, as we mount upward, and look down upon these remarkable
sights, I will a tale unfold, which, if it does not make your blood
tingle will at least arouse your interest. Perhaps you may have
difficulty in believing it, but stranger things are happening in this
nineteenth century and at the World’s Fair than ever enter into your
philosophy, Horatio! Here we are. Now watch me.”
Wycherley seems to stand back as though awaiting a certain car. How it
is done, the Canadian knows not, for he sees no signals exchanged, but
presently he finds himself with his singular companion in one of the
cars in which they are the only passengers.
“First of all, notice this,” says Wycherley, as he points to the door
that is ajar.
“Against orders. I thought the system was perfect on the Ferris wheel,
and every door locked.”
“So it is, usually. To-night there is a substitute on duty--that is
all.”
He makes this remark in a significant tone, which at once stamps it as
a fact upon which theories may be built, and Aleck remembers it.
“Now,” continues the disciple of Forrest and Booth, in an impressive
way, “our time for conversation is limited to about one revolution. I
have a story to tell connected with the fortunes of Aroun Scutari and
Samson Cereal, and you will excuse me if I plunge into the details
without further delay.”
“With pleasure,” remarks the Canadian, who stands looking out upon
the remarkable scene that, as they rise higher and higher, gradually
unfolds before their vision until it looks like fairy-land--the
Administration building standing out above all else, with its myriads
of electric sparks showing the outlines of the dome, while ever and
anon, as the moon hides behind a passing cloud, the search lights sweep
across the fair grounds like lightning flashes from the skies, crossing
and recrossing in mystic symbols.
“Going back nearly twenty years, the grain king of Chicago, Samson
Cereal, was in Turkey. I believe he was a United States consul at one
of the ports, perhaps Constantinople itself. Let that pass.
“By a series of strange circumstances, when traveling in Georgia--a
place over in Asia where their greatest industry seems to be raising
beautiful girls to be sold as wives to wealthy Turks--he met a young
woman named Marda, as lovely as an houri. She bewitched the American,
and as he had been taken wounded to her father’s house he had
opportunities for talking with the object of his mad devotion. So, as
was quite natural, they fell in love.
“Now, anyone that knows old Samson to-day would be inclined to doubt
that the cool, calculating manipulator of wheat could ever have been a
Hotspur, ready to dare all for love, yet it is quite true. Imagine his
despair when the object of his adoration, while admitting a return of
his love, coolly told him the fates had decreed it otherwise; that she
was destined to be the wife of a great pasha; money had already been
paid to her parents, and they were in honor bound to see that when the
attendants, now on the way from Stamboul, arrived, she should go to the
beautiful harem of the pasha.
“Well, Samson just up and stormed. He swore to the Georgian beauty that
as she loved him, by that love she belonged to him--that he would have
her, and take her to his country where one wife is all they allow a man
to have.
“This appeared to strike the lovely girl as quite a delightful thing.
It ended in her declaring that if Samson won her she was his.
“As the representative of the pasha and his suite appeared about
the time this bargain was struck, there was no time to do anything
then; but Samson was fully aroused and laid his plans. In this first
speculation of his life he showed the same shrewdness that has of late
years raised him to the proud pinnacle of 'king of the wheat pit.’
“Having learned the exact route the company would take on their way
to Stamboul--for there seems to be some formal ceremony about such
affairs--he mounted a horse and departed in hot haste.
“The result was just what he figured on. Such a shock old
Constantinople had not received since the Crimean War. Even convulsed
as the Turks were over the impending war with Russia, they became
furious when it was learned that the caravan bearing the intended
bride of a pasha had been attacked by a band of savage Kurds under an
American, the horses all stolen and the beautiful Marda carried away.
“Samson had laid his plans well. I reckon he had the story of young
Lochinvar in his mind. At any rate, he rode furiously on to the city,
where he had almost to bankrupt himself in chartering a small steamer.
Once on this they had just so many hours to pass the forts at the
straits. I believe a shot or two were fired after them, but it was too
late, for evening came on, and the brave American had won his bride.”
“You have deeply interested me. Love is indeed a giant in leveling
difficulties. We are now nearing the top--the view is magnificent--but
as yet I am not able to apply your story to present conditions.”
“Patience, and all will be made clear, dear boy.”