THE END OF A LITTLE GAME
The short German had worked himself up into an irritable state. He
led the way about the arrangements for dining, his tall friend all
the while mildly attempting to soothe his ruffled feelings.
Furstenheimer, appearing much crest-fallen, meekly followed their
wishes.
A private room must be had, the dealer announced. They took a
detached one with the door opening out toward the highway. Each one
of the three proposed to have a favorite dish from his province.
The little German grew more fussy. He condemned the restaurant
manager and got at loggerheads with the waiter. He must at least
have a Mecklenburg salad as he came from Mecklenburg-Schwerin. The
waiter did not know what it was and the irascible Teuton informed
him bluntly that he was a _Dummkopf_. The card player would make it
himself and all must do him the honor of eating it. He proclaimed in
a loud voice that it was the superior of all salads. He had won at
cards, the money stuck out of his pockets. He was triumphant and
becoming insolent.
Kirtley wished he were out of this company. He opened the outside
door a moment for fresh air. He noticed that the door had a spring
lock. The rain was coming down in torrents. And he ought not to
abandon his naïve friend.
The repast was begun by drinking the prevailing toast to Der Tag!
His companions now talked openly about the threatening war, and
Gard, who had not seen a paper since morning, did not know that
hostilities were at last in the way of breaking out. From the
conversation he could but judge that all Belgium and northern France
were to be made German. This seemed simple and inevitable through
all the blustering and bragging. England--America--did not appear to
cut any figure. They had no armies, hence they were negligible.
When the company got down to the Mecklenburg salad, the clamorous
German expatiated about it at length as he began his bustling
preparations for its manufacture.
"One of the great points of my salad is plenty of pepper." With a
flourish he grabbed the little pepper box to suit the action to the
words, and nothing came out. It was empty.
"Waiter, waiter, bring some pepper, you stupid _Kerl_. Don't you
know enough to set the table properly?"
Another pepper receptacle was brought, but it would not work. It was
stopped up.
"Gott im Himmel! waiter, you idiot, bring some _pepper_ and be quick
about it." And the swaggerer began abusing him, the inn and
inferentially men who would not wager in a social little card game.
The servitor raced in, mad and muttering, and banged down a big can
of the much desired condiment. At last, Gott sei Dank! there was
pepper by the wholesale. The salad proceeded on its troubled course.
"You like our Germany--yes?" was inserted. Kirtley assured the three
that he had had a pleasant year.
"Our Germany is a great country," explained the tall Teuton in a
high, cracked voice. "And after the war it will be a much greater
country." He was flushed with drink like the other two. The Germans
lifted their glasses again to Der Tag, and Gard, their guest, joined
in half-heartedly. There was this time an ugly firmness showing in
the demonstration that he did not fancy. He was frankly
uncomfortable. His companions did not like it because he drank
sparingly in spite of all the vehement urging.
The salad proved to be a wonderful dish, hot and strong, fit for the
iron stomach of a "blond beast." It not only bit but was
provocative. In the growing conviviality the subject leaped from
salad to cards. The winner took out his money. He began shaking it
in Gard's eyes, insisting once more on wagering it that his American
friend could not pick the card. With the _demi-tasses_ and cigars he
ordered the deck and table. He started the game, having locked out
the blockhead of a waiter and dropped the key into his own pocket.
Gard would not play. His ire was rising. The small German declared
himself mistreated. He jumped up from the table and burst out in a
tirade against shoddy Americans. This brought each man to his feet.
The dealer, violent and familiar, put his hands on Gard.
"You are a dollar American and dare not bet."
"Please keep your hands off me," cried Kirtley and drew back,
shaking with the affront. The German persisted and Gard's football
days stood him in good stead. He knocked him down. At this the mask
was thrown off.
"Get his passport!" yelled the dealer on the floor. The other two
began to draw weapons and started toward Kirtley. He was almost
unnerved. His genial Wuerttemberg friend a spy! It was the _Secret
Service_.
As he stepped back, thunderstruck, his hand grazed the big pepper
can which had been left on the side table. It sent an inspiration
whizzing through his brain. He whisked off its unfastened top,
grabbed a handful of pepper, and with a swing of the kind he used to
use in his throws from left field to home plate--let go with all his
force.
The aim was true. The pepper swept into the eyes and mouths of the
two men. The other was half lying on the floor near their feet and
he also received a dose. Pepper filled their side of the room and
blinded them as they sneezed and groped about in pain. Gard bolted
for the outer, self-locking door and, almost before he realized it,
was out in the highway in the rain, heading away from the city and
in the direction of the Dutch border which, he knew, lay not far
away.