A JOURNEY
At Eisenach, bound for Frankfort, the train guard punched Kirtley's
ticket and showed him into a compartment that was empty save for a
military figure engaged in reading a large newspaper, holding it
firmly with gloved hands before his face. Although the day was warm,
an army cap was clapped down low on the head.
Gard sank back on the cushions and closed his eyes. He was somewhat
fatigued from having climbed the Wartburg whose castle, famed in the
history of Luther, lay asleep there like a long and oddly shaped
beetle. He soon fell into a doze. When he became conscious again,
his companion's countenance was buried as before in the paper.
Underneath it, gray trousers and large boots protruded in Kirtley's
direction as if to ward off any familiar approach.
That editorial page must be extensive and absorbing, Kirtley
commented to himself as he whiffed the refreshing breeze that came
in his window from Hesse close by on the west. In a delicious
half-dreaminess he thought the stranger turned the journal and that
a reddish, be-whiskered visage, with a flat, wide-lobed nose, popped
into view for a second.
The motionless reading, nevertheless, continued for the remainder of
the trip. To the sweet July zephyr and the snug landscapes flitting
by, the soldier paid no heed. How German this was!--Kirtley mused.
The Teutons are a wintry race and often take their summer joys in a
hard, hyperborean fashion. He could not but admire this example of
physical constraint. The iron rigors of Prussian drill had made the
best army in the world.
Or perhaps this was some queer, abnormal chap. Gard remembered
fragments of stories he had heard of comic or tragic happenings in
the separated, locked compartments of continental trains. But the
tales were too vague in his mind to pique any anxiety. He roused
himself and took up his German newspaper. Muffled war scares. Always
war scares more or less in evidence. How dull the Teuton journals
would be without them! Dog days were coming and brains were no doubt
effervescing.
The forty-eight hours in the rich old capital on the Main were full
and Kirtley had almost forgotten his peculiar fellow traveler from
Eisenach. What was his amazement, after his guard had punched his
transportation and closed him into his compartment in the train for
Heidelberg, to find the same individual seated alone again in the
corner, engrossed in his voluminous and stationary paper!
This began to be disturbing. Gard was not more brave than the
average mortal, but fear had not really been born into his bones.
Was this some weird affair? Was it a spy at work, combining German
earnestness with German farcicalness? The ludicrous extremes of Jim
Deming's experience flashed over Kirtley's mind. But he felt as full
confidence in his innocence as had Jim, and he had not given a
Cinderella party.
It was a short run to the celebrated university town on the Neckar
through ancient Hesse. What would Gard do? This was a nonsensical
situation. He decided to crack it open, find out what it was all
about. He summoned his best German and formally addressed a casual
remark to the stranger. No answer. He did not hear.
"Oh, deaf! Probably dumb too!" Gard exclaimed to himself. His next
move was to step across to the other window for the evident purpose
of throwing out something. A lurch of the train caused him to
stumble against the high boots. They remained motionless. He
discovered that the eyes behind the paper were fixed in a stare.
_It was a stuffed figure!_
A mere puppet. And yet a thrill of alarm, for the first time, shot
through Gard. It was not reassuring. He thought of Rudi. Was this
some official prank young Bucher had set going? It would be like
him. He must be a spy, as Anderson had insisted. Was the son trying
to act with confederates far away over here near the Rhine?
The passport! Rudi and the family knew all about it. Kirtley felt in
his inside shirt pocket. He was relieved to find the parchment still
there. How foolish he would have been to leave it in his grip, as
Rudi had urged! A traveler couldn't be with his grip every moment.
But why was such a paper considered valuable by the Secret Service?
As he returned to his seat, Kirtley gave the legs a kick "just for
luck." He could not help laughing. The burlesque! The Germans were
certainly a curious people. This was like some fantastic tale of
Hoffmann with its marionettes and other childish stuff so dear to
the race.
It came over him that this image was thus being conveniently
transported from one town to another for some show--some Jarley
waxworks. But how, then, about that other form in the train from
Eisenach? It had certainly been alive. Had he not seen it turn its
paper? Yet, was he sure? He had been half asleep and might have
imagined it.
As he revolved the matter in his mind, he was less and less
positive. At any rate, how explain the fact that this exact figure
had been on the two trains and that each time he had been with it
alone? How was it known here what trains he would take? Only the
Buchers were advised.
Whether a silly hoax or a performance of the tremendous sleuth
system of Germany, Gard was too unsettled to enjoy fully his brief
sojourn at Heidelberg. He decided to trip up any pursuers. Instead
of resuming by rail his journey to Mannheim, according to that
section of his ticket, he took an auto. For every reason that would
be pleasanter. He could see to better advantage the far-famed,
vine-clad valley of the Neckar where it merges into the wide and
noble plains of the Rhine.
From Mannheim he went by boat as proposed. His be-whiskered friend
did not put in an appearance and Kirtley congratulated himself on
the riddance. The more he reflected, the less he made any sense out
of it. Coincidence, practical joke, spy system at white heat,
hallucination--all suggestions seemed equally untenable.
At Cologne he found the newspapers full of discussions about war. On
the trip he had not read much. He was either sight-seeing,
traveling, weary or sleepy. For that matter, the public generally
was not aware that fearful hostilities were imminent, and he gave
the subject no keen notice.
There is not much to view in the city of odors--Coleridge's city of
"two and seventy" smells. Only the cathedral. Although the museum
is mediocre Gard dropped in there at noon to fill in his time. After
wandering about he became aware that there was, in the distance,
another visitor whose occasional shuffling footsteps first attracted
his attention among the eye-obstructing objects. Then he saw, at
times, a bulky form bending over some curiosity and contemplating
it.
As Kirtley had no companion on his journey, except the military
scarecrow, he felt a touch of lonesomeness and was glad when he
gradually approached near enough to see that this person was a
kindly looking German who had the wondering air of a sight-seer. In
their leisurely itineraries they at last met in front of a small
bronze copy of a Roman horse marked with italics in Gard's guide
book.
The other looked, too, as if he wanted to speak, and his cheerful
countenance invited Kirtley's readiness to visit with someone. The
stranger was in appearance a prosperous man of about thirty-five,
blond, with a very small curling mustache under a small nose. Though
he kept smiling he still said nothing, as if doubtful of a first
advance.
Gard hesitated, then broke the ice.
"I don't know anything about Roman horses," he essayed. "I can't
tell whether this is a good thing or not." The other was affably
relieved and was soon pouring out information about the animal.
"Excuse me," he ventured, "but I raise horses on my estate and I
know a little about them. The Roman horse was, of course, smaller,
shorter, stockier, than our modern type. Small heads, short necks,
built closer to the ground. Just like the Roman himself. This is a
splendid example."
Seeing that Gard followed him he began again with:
"Excuse me." And he plunged into a minute, quite exhaustive,
discussion of the Latin specimen before them, as they walked round
and round to view it from all angles. Kirtley had never before
realized there were so many points--fine points--about this familiar
quadruped. The German showed why this animal could not speed, could
not make nearly as many miles a day as his present successor. But,
like the Roman, he had endurance and he was undoubtedly easier to
handle. There were the withers, the haunch, the hock, and a score of
other features upon which Gard's new acquaintance held forth,
introducing almost every remark with his rather embarrassed "excuse
me."
The astonishing Teuton erudition again! Gard had to marvel at it
once more. This German was, by rare exception, ingratiating. They
finally introduced themselves. Herr Furstenheimer of Wuerttemberg--a
farmer. Gard concluded he did not dislike Germans of the south.
Their temperaments, voices, manners, are somewhat softer than those
of the north.
"I haven't been in Cologne in twenty years," Furstenheimer
explained. "Just stopped off. I wonder if you--I see you too are a
tourist--happen to be going my way. Excuse me, but that would be
odd, wouldn't it?"
"Yes--I'm bound for Rotterdam."
"Rotterdam--- why so am I!" ejaculated the German in a happy moment.
"I'm on my way to visit my sister there. I haven't seen her for
years. It's really shameful. What train do you take?"
"The two o'clock. I wish you might be going along. One gets somewhat
bored traveling alone."
"I'm the same way. I like company. I had intended going on
to-night, but this Cologne one hears so much about is
disappointingly dull, isn't it? Nothing to see." They conversed in
German to Kirtley's linguistic satisfaction.
"But I'm stopping off at Aix-la-Chapelle," he had to say. "That's at
four. Then I'm taking the late train."
"What is there at Aix? I don't remember."
"I want to see Charlemagne's tomb."
"Oh, _so_? That can't be duller than Cologne, can it? I don't see
that I would be losing any time by it either. I'll tell you what
I'll do. If I decide to join you--and I hope I shall--you'll see me
at the two o'clock. But if I don't--well, Aufwiedersehen!--let us
hope--and I am delighted to have met you."
Gard was gratified when the sociable Wuerttemberger arrived at the
station. They went on to Aix in a compartment full of _militaires_.
The countryside, swimming in the sunlight, lay tidy and dimpling in
the gentle arms of a peace and prosperity that made the newspaper
talk of a campaign seem unreal and preposterous.
Furstenheimer appeared to have only the interests of a small
land-holder, and gossiped about his farm, his horses and prices. He
was not apparently concerned about the war excitement. Agriculture
in Wuerttemberg was more important. Like most Germans, whether there
was war or no war, seemed much the same thing with him. Either must
be taken naturally and philosophically like a state of Nature.
Furstenheimer was not fond of being away from home. To be frank, his
brother-in-law in Rotterdam had got into financial straits and his
own sister was ill. They had become almost strangers in the long
separation. And that was not right, _was_ it? He really had had to
go.
When they arrived at Aix--the German Aachen--they decided to leave
their grips in an inn, across the station Platz, so that they could
conveniently dine there and be near at hand for the express. Then
they started for the cathedral which, with its eleven centuries,
loomed under a lofty octagon from a low hill.