THE MAN FROM THE BOSPHORUS.
The excitement gradually dies away when the fair inmates of the car
realize that they are no longer in danger from the crazy professor,
whose brain cannot stand the exhilarating influence of a ride in mid
air.
Slowly the wheel revolves, and relieved of their apprehensions some of
the women proceed to look out upon the wonderful spectacle, for Chicago
lies spread out before their vision, bathed in the mystic moonlight,
while at their feet, as it were, nestles the representative homes of
the world’s strangest peoples.
The wheel goes on, and again they mount upward for the second
revolution. Dorothy all this time has been thinking of other scenes
than those upon which her eyes rest. Before her vision came the
snow-covered sides of Mount Royal, the icy bosom of the mighty St.
Lawrence, the royal splendor of last winter’s ice carnival, when the
crystal palace was dedicated in the gay fashion that has been the charm
of a Canadian winter for a long time past.
How distinctly does she remember the frolic on the long stretch of ice
and the adventure that befell her. No wonder the blood tingles her
veins as she realizes that the courteous skater who gave her assistance
in the hour of her need is the same who now sits upon the recumbent
form of the panting professor--that he has performed a feat of valor
that has won for him the title of hero in her eyes.
She is no prim New England maiden, this only child of the Chicago grain
manipulator. The warm blood of an Oriental mother flows in her veins,
though she knows it not. Besides, on the father’s side she inherits
some of his daring.
When she no longer doubts the identity of the man who has come to
their rescue, Dorothy turns away from the window--though they are at
this time reaching the point over which all voyagers on the wheel have
raved--and approaches the Canadian, who smiles a little as he looks up
into the fearless dusky orbs.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but unless I am seriously mistaken I believe I
have met you before, and under circumstances that left me your debtor.
Am I right?” she asks.
“You refer to our meeting last winter. I have remembered with pleasure
that a broken strap allowed me to be of some assistance to you, though
deploring the fact that you received an injury in your fall. Perhaps
you will recollect that you gave me your card. I called at all the
hotels on the following day but could not find you.”
“Ah! we were stopping with friends,” she smiles.
“I haunted the pleasure ground, and was at every affair for days after,
hoping to learn that you had not been seriously injured.”
“A telegram called us home the next day. Father was ill. But--you had
the card--my address is upon it. If you had been _very_ solicitous
about my health----”
“Ah!” he breaks in, “pardon me again. That is where the curious part
of it comes in. Look, I have it still. After I left you I continued
skating. Something happened down the river--perhaps you may have read
about it, but they gave me much more credit than I deserved. At any
rate, I was in the water, and, with the assistance of men who brought
boards, managed to save a young lady. The ice was new at the spot, and
hardly fit for use, though she had no warning. I only mention this to
explain another circumstance. Later on I remembered your card; when I
took it out of my pocket it had been soaked, and only half remained
legible. Thus I could only discover that your first name was Dorothy,
and that Chicago claimed you for a resident.”
“How strange,” she murmurs.
“I confess that when I came to the great Fair, I wondered if by some
odd chance I might see you here, though it would be a remarkable thing
indeed. While I think of the oddity of our meeting here, I am struck
dumb with amazement,” he says seriously.
“It seems like fate to me,” is what her heart whispers, and the very
thought causes the blood to mount over neck and face until Aleck’s eyes
are ravished with the fairest picture they ever beheld.
Love comes at no man’s bidding--it cannot be bought with the riches
of an Eastern potentate--spontaneously it springs from the heart as
the lightning leaps from cloud to cloud. So Aleck Craig, bachelor,
realizes, as he looks into the lovely face of Marda’s daughter, that
surely he has met his fate, for such a strange meeting could not occur
unless the cords of their destiny were bound together.
Dorothy says no more just at present. The wheel is rolling around,
the pinnacle passed, and they are descending. Soon they must part. The
professor has made several attempts at rising, but Craig shakes him
down as easily as he might a schoolboy. The Padarewski of the Ferris
wheel is in the hands of a master-voice and the flail-like arms have
long since ceased to cause the wildest music ever heard in one of
these cars--and truth to tell strange things have happened under their
shelter, from a wedding in mid air to the “siss-boom-ah!” of a score
of ascending college students, who deemed themselves slighted by the
superior attractions of the Midway, and were determined to win notice.
As they near the bottom, Dorothy overcomes her reserve once more.
“You will think it strange that I should come to this place at night,
and with only a middle-aged lady for a companion, but I have a reason
for it, Mr. Craig. You know who I am now--the daughter of Samson
Cereal. We live on the North side. Some time perhaps you may call, and
I might feel it my duty to explain. God knows it is no idle whim that
brings me here, but a sacred purpose.”
Her voice is low, her manner earnest, almost eloquent. The Canadian is
deeply moved--when does a beautiful woman with her soul in her eyes
fail to arouse enthusiasm?
“I can well believe that, Miss Dorothy, from the few facts I have
learned,” he says, and although her eyebrows are arched in surprise,
she makes no remark.
The wheel has ceased to revolve. Craig arises, and allows the professor
to regain his feet.
“Are we down?” ejaculates that pious fraud in anxious tones, and upon
his wife reassuring him that all is well, he says solemnly, “Thank
Heaven for that, and all mercies.”
Dorothy manages to brush close to the Canadian, and takes occasion to
say:
“To-morrow night we receive. Will you come?”
He looks straight in her eyes as he replies:
“If I am in the flesh, I will.”
Then as she extends her hand, after they have left the wheel, he takes
it reverently in his.
“Good night, Mr. Craig.”
He watched the two veiled ladies vanish in the midst of the throng that
gathers at this point, where Persian and Turkish theaters, with their
noisy mouthpieces in front, vie with the Chinese and Algerian shows
further on.
The murmur of her soft voice, the look of her lovely eyes, remain with
him like a dream, and to himself this stout-hearted Canadian is saying:
“Hard hit at last, my boy. No more will the old joys allure you. In the
past, peace, contentment, and all the humors of a jolly bachelorhood.
To come, the fierce longing, the uneasy rest, the yearning after what
may prove to be the unattainable. Hang it! I’ve laughed at others, and
now they have revenge. Well, would you change it all--cross out the
experience of to-night?”
“Not for worlds, my boy, and you know it!” says a voice in his ear,
and turning, he finds the speaker, as he supposes, is Wycherley, the
careless, good-natured Bohemian--half painter, half actor, and whole
vagabond.
“Come, I didn’t suppose there were eavesdroppers around,” mutters
Craig, confused.
“Well, you uttered that last sentence a trifle louder than you
intended, and I answered it for you. That’s all. No offense meant, I
assure you. Come, walk arm and arm with me. I feel the eyes of Aroun
Scutari upon me, and want to arrange my plans before granting him an
interview.”
“Certainly, if it will help you.”
“Are you very angry with me, Aleck?”
“Angry? What for?”
“For the miserable business I was engaged in. I honestly assure you
my motives were really quite philanthropical. At the end you know I
realized what a foolish thing I had done. You know me well enough, old
fellow, to understand that I’m no villain, fool though I may be at
times.”
His repentance is sincere, and Aleck, like the good-hearted fellow he
is, claps him on the shoulder.
“I hold no grudge against you, my boy. On the contrary this ridiculous
escapade on the part of the Turk and yourself has resulted very
pleasantly to a fellow of my size. It enabled me to meet one for whom I
have been looking six months and more.”
“When you mentioned her name I knew there was something in the wind.
And believe me, Aleck, you did old Montreal proud. I wish the Toque
Bleue snowshoe boys had been here to see their bold comrade climb the
Ferris wheel.”
At this Craig laughs merrily.
“They might have believed me a little daft, for surely such a Quixotic
venture could have but one meaning--that I had thrown my senses to the
winds, and imbibed too much Chicago champagne.”
“Here comes the Turk straight at me, as if resolved to wait no longer.
Mark his dark face. He saw you come out of that car. The deal is up,
and I must defy his royal nibs.”
Aroun Scutari has barred their path; one hand he reaches out and
touches Wycherley.
“You deceived me, traitor!” he says, with a peculiar accent on the
words, such as a foreigner usually gives, no matter how thoroughly at
home he may be with the English language.
“My dear fellow, you are mistaken; I simply deceived myself. When the
critical moment came my nerve failed me. That mug of French cider
should have been something stronger. It is all right, anyway; this
gentleman saved the girls, so what’s the odds?”
His coolness is remarkable. Really Wycherley must have haunted the
Eskimo village a good deal of late, to show so little concern with the
grave affairs of life.
“It is all wrong. By the beard of the Prophet, I will look to you!
Where is the money with which I buy your soul?” demands the Turk,
working his hands as though eager to get them fastened upon the throat
of the Christian dog of an unbeliever.
“What you paid me I used in the regular routine of my work. By proxy,
I saved the girl. There is now one hundred dollars due. Will you pony
up?” holding out his hand, at which the furious Moslem glares.
“I do not understand. You make sport with me, a pasha. If it were
Turkey I would have your head to pay!” he snarls.
“Then I am glad it is not Turkey. You thought you had me molded to your
liking, but the worm has turned. We are quits, Scutari. _Au revoir_,”
and gayly waving his hand, the debonnair Swiveller of the Midway takes
Aleck’s arm and saunters on, leaving the gentleman from the Bosphorus
standing there, his brown face convulsed with the fury that rends his
soul, as he realizes that his amazing scheme has thus far proved a
lamentable failure.