THE OLD GAME OF THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
“Jove! there he is, sure enough, and riding a camel too. What is come
over Samson Cereal, the sedate king of the wheat pit? I am amazed!”
declares the Canadian.
“My dear fellow, you should be surprised at nothing here. I tell you
it’s in the air. Haven’t I seen one of the most learned professors of
Yale perched on the hump of a camel, grinning from ear to ear; while
his companion, a preacher whose name is a household word from the
Atlantic to the Pacific, whose sermons are weekly printed wherever
the English language is spoken, trotted up and down this street on
a diminutive donkey, his feet scraping the ground. I’d have given
something for a snap-shot camera at that time. Look at our friend--he’s
enjoying the lark as much as would a schoolboy.”
“Very true, and under ordinary circumstances I can see how this might
be; but to-night he is to face a crisis in his affairs, and carry out
his own scheme for defeating Aroun Scutari.”
“Just so, Aleck, and give him credit for appearing quite natural. His
friends are here to take in the Street, and as a Chicagoan Samson has
to join them in the frolic. Here they come up the aisle again. Did
you ever see such a sight as when the camel runs, jolting them out
of breath. It’s an hilarious old time the boys have in this place.
Everybody grows young again.”
“Let us descend. The time for action draws near.”
“How about weapons?” asks Wycherley.
“I have none save what nature gave me, and in times past have been
taught to depend upon them in emergencies. I reckon I shall be able to
render a good account of myself when the crisis comes. How about you,
Claude?”
“I’m a Western man, you know, and in my peregrinations I’ve learned to
know the value of a cold deck. Trust a tramp for that. Besides, I’ve
been in Texas in my time. They’ve got odd ideas down there. You can’t
trust to appearances. I saw a man arrested once, the most innocent
looking party imaginable, as meek as Moses, and at sight I’d swear
he was an itinerant circuit rider, a 'saddlebags,’ as we call ’em;
yet when they came to search him they found seven packs of cards on
his person, and enough revolvers and bowie knives to fit out a whole
regiment of Rangers. So you see when a fellow’s spent some time among
such scenes, he naturally imbibes the same ideas.”
“But I never knew you to go armed before.”
“My dear man, that was because I had nothing to lose; in all
probability my curiosities were in hock. Now that I’m a respectable
member of society again, with silver jingling in my pocket, I stand a
chance of being robbed. Someone may envy me this fine suit of clothes.
One of my first acts was to redeem an old pet of mine--and here you
are.”
With that he unbuttons his loose sack coat. As he throws it open Aleck
stares. A belt encircles Wycherley’s waist, and fastened in this is a
revolver. Aleck is not a man of war, but at the same time something of
a sportsman, and familiar with firearms.
“Let me see it, Claude--a little old-fashioned, but a good weapon. You
treasure it--why?”
“It was given to me once upon a time by a man I valued as a friend. I
was hardly more than a boy at the time. That weapon has sounded the
deathknell of many a man.”
“Indeed! not in your hands, I hope?”
At this Claude laughs.
“No, indeed. I’ve never fired it in all these years. You have heard
of an eccentric genius known by the name of Wild Bill--it belonged
to him. I was enabled to do him a favor, and he insisted on giving me
this. A month later he passed in his checks, poor fellow.”
“You mean he was killed?”
“Yes, and the man who shot Hickok was too much of a coward to face him,
but entered the room where he played cards, and shot Wild Bill in the
back. He paid the piper, though.”
“Judge Lynch held court?”
“Well, he got away at first, but the boys just up and howled. There was
a trial, and in the end the matter was settled.”
“By the way, is it loaded?”
“I reckon not, but that don’t count. I depend on the general appearance
of things to intimidate. If that fails me, here is another Texan trick.”
How he does it the Canadian never knows, but this wonderful genius,
once actor, tramp, cowboy, and now stockbroker, puts his hand up to the
back of his neck and draws out a most formidable weapon--half knife,
half sword--a curiosity that would charm a collector, rusty in spots,
even nicked and shabby, yet showing signs of former splendor as a Texan
bowie.
“You see I had my choice of this and a Mexican _machete_ I own among my
curios, and I took this because it lies so charmingly along one’s back
under the coat--its shape was adapted to that very purpose by Colonel
Bowie, who invented it, and I assure you, Aleck, I have positive proof
that this is the identical weapon he fashioned himself and used to such
advantage.”
Craig throws up his hands.
“I no longer doubt the outcome. If those poor Turks ever set their eyes
on that saber, their wretched knees will knock together like Spanish
castanets and the Street of Cairo which once was haunted with their
presence will know them never again.”
“Craig, you are heartless--cruel. Sir, in the land of the Texan this is
reckoned only as a play toy.”
“For Heaven’s sake put it away. The sight of it is enough to bring up
thoughts of _hari kari_. If one hated himself he could not wish for
anything more desperate with which to end his existence than that same
old rusty blade,” says Aleck.
“Rusty old blade, forsooth! You have no reverence for relics, Craig. In
the hands of one entirely great, the bowie is mightier than the sword.”
“Well, come along, my boy. _Tempus fugit_, and I see Samson Cereal with
his friends sauntering down the avenue. When he separates from them,
as will soon be the case, the Turkish spider will throw his wonderful
web across the street, and the American fly be asked to 'walk into my
little parlor!’”
Wycherley buttons up his coat and carefully conceals his array of
weapons. No one looking at him now would dream he was such a walking
arsenal. Appearances are deceptive, and many a person who goes about
this Midway Plaisance wears a mask.
Thus they leave their eyrie, and once more rub elbows with the
jostling, good-natured crowd, that surges about the spot where the
camels kneel to receive and deposit their squealing burdens.
Sauntering down Cairo Street, they keep at a respectable distance
behind the great operator and his two companions.
The time for action is near at hand. No doubt the Turk fumes at seeing
how Samson’s friends stick closer than brothers, and doubtless he is
exercising his mind in the endeavor to invent some way of separating
them.
He need not worry. Samson himself will arrange all that. The two
gentlemen appear to be ordinary business men, one stout and red-faced,
the other tall and cadaverous. They survey the scene as though
indelibly stamping it on their minds for production, and are interested
in all the details.
Finally they drew near the bend. Here on the left Cairo Street, more
narrow than before, runs down to the stables of the donkeys and camels,
beyond which rise the needles of Cleopatra, guarding the entrance of
the Egyptian Temple of Luxor. On the right the main street continues
a short distance, terminating in the theater where the dancing girls
amaze and disgust most of those who go in to see their gyrations.
At the point of division is the well remembered “cold drink” café,
where Turkish and Egyptian flavors are given to weak American
lemonade, or ice cream of a like character served in a glass. It is
second habit for the pilgrims of Cairo Street to try every novelty,
and so they purchase a _horchata_ as the people of Spain call these
refrescos--expressed juice of the fruit, mingled with sugar and cold
water.
While they discuss the merits of the beverage the three friends talk
of their plans, and presently the two who have come to take in all
the sights, on business principles, leave Samson Cereal standing
there, while they enter the door of the theater, through which the
Turkish bridegroom runs, carrying his bride, at the termination of the
ridiculous “bridal procession,” given several times each afternoon
and evening, with all the pomp of gayly caparisoned camels, mounted
swordsmen, flashy palanquin and the most excruciating music that ever
assailed American ears.
“At last--alone!” says Wycherley, and Aleck is compelled to smile at
the reference, for only an hour or so previous, both of them have been
admiring the picture of the young husband folding his bride in his arms
after the wedding guests have gone.
Now is the time for the Turk to start his little game of Oriental
duplicity. Having but a faint idea of the manner in which Scutari
intends to act, Aleck is, of course, deeply interested in the whole
business. He and Wycherley have halted at a convenient distance, and
watch for the spider to send his emissary forth.
Just across the way is the room of the veiled fortune teller, though
no flaming sign announces her presence, only the modest wording given
before. That it is through her in some way the manipulator of wheat is
to be trapped, Aleck does not doubt, and yet he cannot fully believe
the woman is in league with Scutari. They only met two evenings before,
and he seemed astonished at her presence in Cairo Street. Perhaps he
has not seen her in these twenty years. Why should she enter into a
league with the Turk--she has no reason to hate her former husband, and
least of all should the mother conspire to throw her child into the
hands of one she loathes.
Of course the tricky Aroun knows how to utilize certain forces--he has
made a study of woman, Turkish women at least, and believes he can
bend them to his will. Through cunning, then, he may cause Marda to be
the bait that will draw the foolish fly into the net.
“Look!” says Wycherley.
Samson is no longer alone.
Standing at his side is an Arab boy--such a lad as races the donkeys up
and down, and takes a fiendish pleasure in scaring old ladies half to
death by shouting in their ear as his long-eared charge rubs against
their arm in passing. This dark skinned youth rises on his toes to
deliver a card to the American with the gray mustache, and then makes a
low salaam, sweeping his arms in the direction of the wall, where over
the narrow door and under the odd latticed balcony window one can read
the sign of
SAIDEE--THE VEILED FORTUNE TELLER.
“What will he do with it?” mutters the irrepressible Wycherley in
Aleck’s ears, but the intended joke is Greek to the Canadian, who,
while half an American at heart, has never been educated up to the
standard of American humor.
“He reads it--see that start, that eager glance around. Well done,
Samson, old boy. I’ll have you playing first walking gent in my
traveling combination before you’re many moons older. Now his gaze is
fastened on the door. He advances like a lamb to the slaughter, and
hands in his little quarter. Shout, ye Turkish hosts, for the game is
apparently won!”