YOUNG CANADA ON DECK.
When the full meaning of what has happened flashes into Craig’s
mind--when he sees Aroun Scutari, lord of the harem and pasha in the
Sultan’s service, about to take Dorothy Cereal in his arms, it seems as
though an electric battery must have suddenly become attached to the
Canadian, so abrupt are his movements.
Leaving the side of the actor, while the other is speaking, he rushes
straight for the scene of the kidnaping. Perhaps love urges his steps.
At least the indignation of an honorable man sends him forward.
There is no palliation, no excuse for such an outrage, and hence the
feeling he entertains for Scutari is that of righteous anger. Such a
scene as this, of course, creates excitement. People gather quickly,
no matter if it be a dog fight on the streets of Constantinople, an
encounter between dragoman and donkey boy at Cairo on the Nile, an
attempted assassination of a Czar at St. Petersburg, or a duel between
two bootblacks in front of the City Hall in New York.
Already a score of people surround the two women. Questions fly back
and forth. The authoritative manner in which Scutari assumes charge
convinces those present that the lady who has fainted belongs to him.
The veil hides her face, and while curious glances are cast in that
quarter, none are so lucky as to see what lies under its screen.
Near by is the exit. Beyond, no doubt, the Turk has a carriage ready.
His years of waiting seem about to be crowned with triumph--though he
lost the mother he wins the daughter. Kismet: it is fate.
Unexpected obstacles arise in his path--obstacles which in his native
land he could brush aside, or at least subdue with the sword, but which
are of a more serious nature under the civilizing influence of the
Stars and Stripes.
First of all, as the man from Stamboul is about to take Dorothy in his
arms, he is surprised to find someone tugging at his sleeve, someone
who seems bent upon distracting his attention, and who will not cease
even when he gives a bearlike shrug.
When he hears a woman’s voice pouring upon his devoted head all the
miserable names known in the Turkish language, the pasha, struck by
a sudden recollection, thinks it worth while to turn his attention
thither.
Of course it is the fortune teller; she realizes the peril of her
child. Since the day when Samson Cereal stole her away, she has learned
to look at the old-time habits of the Turks with aversion, and the
mother love in her heart, which nothing on earth can destroy, urges her
to save Dorothy.
As well might she appeal to a Nero. This dark-skinned man comes from
a country where women are bought and sold. As he sees who thus annoys
him, he frowns like a Tartar, and bellows out a string of oaths strange
to the gathering crowd.
There are those who hear, those who know his voice but to obey. Two
men seize upon the fortune teller of Cairo Street, and despite her
struggles bear her away.
“She is crazy,” is the only reply they make to the questions showered
upon them, as they half drag the woman further into the Plaisance.
Again the triumphant pasha bends forward to relieve the woman of her
lovely burden, but, shades of Mohammed! what is this that now descends
upon him with the fury of a young hurricane? What but the Canadian
protectorate, bent upon stepping between Turkey and the daughter of
Chicago!
One fling Craig gives the stout pasha, only a single flip of his
well-trained arms, and the Oriental goes spinning around like a
teetotum or a whirling dervish, bringing up in the arms of a gay young
fellow who has just come from the beer tables of Old Vienna and is
consequently in a hilarious condition.
“Set ’em up in t’other alley,” he shouts; “don’t send ’em in so hard.
Whoop! now you’re in the game, old man; back you go,” with which the
breezy reveler gives Aroun Scutari another whirl, which sends him
halfway back again, a collision with an elderly woman bringing his mad
dance to a sudden stop, as both of them fall over, and her startled
screams add to the clamor.
No sooner has Aleck entered the affair than he has his hands full.
His action in seizing upon the sacred person of the Turk was
equivalent to throwing down the gauntlet, and the Canadian is
immediately set upon by a number of worthies whose itching palms have
been crossed with the gold that makes them slaves to Scutari.
He is in his element, this man of Montreal: not that such a brawl is to
his liking, but the object for which he strives is a sacred one to a
gentleman--the defense of innocence.
They are four to one, and ugly customers at that. Aleck is no Admirable
Crichton, and if left to himself, no matter how gallant his attack, he
must presently go down before the numbers opposed to him.
The crowd seems paralyzed; in an affair of this kind, men usually
believe it none of their business, but stand by and let those
interested fight it out.
Through the fringe of spectators, however, someone pushes a way. It
is Wycherley in search of his friend, and upon seeing Aleck so beset
he throws himself into the breach, which evens up the game a little.
More help comes from an unexpected quarter. The half-intoxicated young
fellow, whose muscular ability sent Scutari flying on the back trip,
has evidently been spoiling for a fight. He picks out his man and
faces him with the air of a scientific boxer, dazzles the eyes of the
Oriental by the rapid use of his hands, and rains such a shower of
blows upon him that the fellow, believing him a wizard with the six
arms of a Chinese god, bellows for mercy.
The action has been swift, and the field won. Aroun Scutari reads his
defeat in the signs so apparent, and wisely steals away. His minions
sneak after him. Aleck turns to the woman who still holds the limp
figure of Dorothy. It galls him to see one arm thrown about the neck of
the treacherous woman, and Dorothy’s head resting on her shoulder.
“I don’t know what to say to you, madam. Your duplicity, your
double-dealing, is known to me. I shall take the first opportunity to
disclose it to your victim. Meantime you must assist me in getting her
home--do you hear?”
She bows her head. This double break in her plans has taken all the
confidence out of the woman who could plot against her best friend. She
now fears the result--for if Samson Cereal is once aroused against her
she may well tremble for her fate.
“Claude, see that she comes; we will find a carriage outside, perhaps.”
“Oh, I’ll get one for you, boys,” cheerfully declares the young
roysterer, as he endeavors to walk a straight line to the exit.
With a strange feeling thrilling him through and through Aleck bends
down and takes the young girl in his arms. She is not entirely
senseless, for though her head droops upon his shoulder, he hears a
fluttering breath and the words:
“Oh, my father!”
Reverently he raises his burden.
“Make way, friends,” he says to those in front, and the crowd parts
before him. They have by this time managed to get an inkling of the
truth through their heads, and between the dark-skinned Turk and the
frank-faced Canadian their sympathies are wholly with the latter.
Strange to say, no Columbian guard has put in an appearance during the
extraordinary fracas. They were everywhere when not wanted.
The exit is close at hand, and as they pass through Aleck sees a figure
with waving arms, a figure he has no trouble in recognizing as their
quondam partner in the late deal.
“This way! here’s your coach; step up lively now, gentlemen. We’re off
over the divide.”
His incoherent jumble is enough to attract Aleck’s attention to the
carriage, and he carefully deposits his burden inside.
“Enter,” he says to the woman beside Wycherley. She would refuse, but
his voice terrifies her, and she obeys.
“Claude, tell the driver where to go. Then get in with me,” he adds
calmly, and it is evident that even more than the strange events of
this night of nights is needed to rattle Aleck Craig.
A moment later Wycherley gets in.
“Jove! that chap insists on sitting beside the driver, and rather than
have a row I let him.”
“Who the deuce is he?”
“Give it up! Muttered something about Happy Jack, and as he’s always
singing snatches of songs or laughing. I reckon he means the name for
himself. Happy Jack--well, he’s to be envied such a disposition in this
vale of tears.”
“Hello! what’s wrong now? I thought you were about as free from care as
the next one?”
“In times gone by. As luck would have it I just saw the adorable Inez.”
“Oh! the pretty Spanish cigar girl.”
“It is too true--perfidious Inez.”
“Come, come, remember your philosophy.”
“But she was with another--a dashing young chap with the strut of a
huzzar. I shall have to reduce him to the humble gait of a cork leg.
Her glance was freezing. I am still like a cake of ice.”
“Perhaps she saw you had company--that it was jealousy influenced her.”
“Aleck, bless you, my dear boy. I take heart, I breathe again.”
Craig turns his attention to the woman who sits opposite, next the
actor. The vehicle is making good progress, but it will be a wearisome
journey to the North side.
“Before we reach this young lady’s home, madam, it is but fair that you
and I should have some sort of explanation. You were supposed to be her
protector; you betrayed your trust. I know all: your alliance with
Aroun Scutari, and everything that followed. You must quit her service
to-morrow, for I mean to expose you.”
“I shall do as you say, sir. There is no need of explanations on my
part. You would denounce my story as a fabrication; but I had cause, I
had cause. What do you wish me to do to-night?”
“Assist in getting the young lady under her father’s roof, from which
she should never have ventured on any such Quixotic errand.”
“You blame me for it, I know; but it was her own idea--she planned it
all, and what followed the pasha took advantage of,” she insists.
It is on the tip of his tongue to ask about the young miner, but he
suddenly shuts his teeth together and changes his mind. Aleck Craig has
a fine sense of honor.
“You have placed yourself in a position where you are liable to
criminal prosecution,” he says sternly.
The woman laughs scornfully.
“You would not dare proceed against me,” she says.
“And why?”
“Because my sweet mistress would have to testify in court, and expose
her own actions. I know them to be entirely innocent--that her motives
were actuated by the holiest feelings of the heart, but the public
would choose to believe otherwise. And to defend myself I would have to
unearth family secrets that would make the name of Samson Cereal the
talk of the town. Now, will you prosecute, sir?”
“We shall be content if you leave your place in the morning,” replies
Aleck discreetly.