BRAVO, PHILANDER!
It is impossible for them to understand just at the moment what has
occurred.
They are in a part of the Maltese city that Europeans might well
hesitate to visit at the hour of midnight, however much they would
frequent it in daylight.
The natives of Valetta have not all become reconciled to British rule,
and although no open outbreak occurs, more than once has it been placed
in evidence that there is a deep feeling of resentful distrust in
certain quarters, which only awaits an opportunity to show its ugly
teeth.
Knowing this fact, it is general principles more than anything else that
causes Philander to have concern.
When those loud cries break forth close at hand, he knows his fears were
not without foundation.
John Craig is also suddenly brought to a realization of the fact that he
has hardly been prudent in his action.
He stows the paper away with a single movement of his hand. It is
precious to him, and must be kept for future study.
Then he is ready to face those who, by their presence and outcries,
announce themselves as the foes of foreigners.
There are many secret societies on the famous island besides the Knights
of Malta, and it is not at all improbable that an organization exists
which has for its main object the eventual uprising of the Maltese and
their freedom from the British yoke.
This would naturally be kept a secret, and not proclaimed from the flat
roofs of Valetta, or the platform of St. Lazarus.
Philander has shown remarkable traits upon this night of nights, traits
which Doctor Chicago never suspected he possessed. He now proves that,
in addition to these other commendable qualities, he has wonderful
presence of mind, and that no sudden emergency can stupefy his senses.
Just as soon as the outcry is heard, he draws the small, cimeter-shaped
paper-knife, which he claimed would make a serviceable weapon.
At the same time he cries out:
"We're in for it, John, my boy! Don't be too proud to run. Legs, do your
duty!"
With which remark Philander starts his lower extremities into action,
turning his head to make sure that his companion has not hesitated to
follow.
If the professor is a small man, he has the faculty for getting over
ground at quite an astonishing rate of speed. His short legs fairly
twinkle as they measure off the yards; and, given a fair show, he would
lead any ordinary runner a race.
The darkness, the uneven street, and his unfamiliarity with his
surroundings, are all against him now, so that he cannot do himself
justice.
Suddenly he misses his companion. John was close beside him ten seconds
before--John, who is a sprinter from athletic education, and who could
have distanced the professor with only half an effort had he wished, but
who moderated his speed to conform with that of his less favored friend.
The shouts have continued all this while, proving that the citizens of
Valetta have steadfastly pursued them with some dark purpose in view.
Just as soon as Philander Sharpe makes this discovery, his action is one
that proves him a hero.
He stops in his tracks, and no longer keeps up his flight.
"Turn the other way, boys! At 'em like thunder! As Sheridan said at
Cedar Creek: 'We'll lick 'em out of their boots,'" is the astonishing
cry he sends forth, as he begins to travel over the back trail.
This speedily brings him upon the scene of action. Several dark figures
have come to a halt around a prostrate object. They are the men of
Valetta, who have organized this secret vendetta against all foreigners.
It is easy to understand why they thus halt. John Craig is the
recumbent, struggling figure on the roadway; John Craig, who has
possibly been lassoed by some expert among the pursuers, and who kicks
with the vim and energy of a free American citizen.
This Philander understands instantly, and also comprehending that he
must do something very speedily, throws himself into the midst of the
dusky Maltese thugs.
The advent of a wild-cat could not produce more astonishment and
consternation than this sudden coming of the energetic little man.
He accompanies his assault with the most energetic movements of both
arms and legs, and his shrill voice keeps time to the music.
As he holds the cimeter-knife in one hand, his movements are not without
certain painful accompaniments. The men fall back in dismay. A momentary
panic is upon them. Philander is shrewd enough to know this will not
last, and he does not attempt to pursue them.
Upon finding that for the time being the scene is left to him, and that
he is the master of the situation, the professor bends down to free his
companion from the noose that binds his arms.
Already has John managed to gain a sitting posture, as the fellow at the
other end of the rope forgets to pull steadily upon it in his alarm at
the new phase of affairs.
Before he can collect his wits, and once more stretch the line,
Philander's keen blade of Damascus steel is pressed against the rope,
and as it comes taut it instantly separates.
This is enough for John, who has now gained his feet, and throws aside
the entangling loop.
His tumble has had a queer effect on the young doctor; usually cool and
cautious, he has been transformed into a Hotspur; there is a sudden
desire for revenge.
In his hand he holds a cudgel, which he snatched from the street as he
arose. It is the spoke of a wheel belonging to some light vehicle, and
which no doubt one of the assailants carried.
With this flourishing about his head, Doctor Chicago leaps in among the
Maltese and belabors them right and left.
As Philander, seeing what is going on, and knowing his assistance would
be appreciated, springs to his side, the dusky sons of Malta break and
run.
They realize, perhaps, that they have waked up the wrong customers, and
immediate flight is the only thing that will save them from the result
of their impetuosity.
The two Americans make a pretense of pursuing them, but truth to tell
their course really lies in an altogether different direction, and, as
if by mutual consent, they suddenly turn right about face.
Taking advantage of the enemy's discomfiture, they are enabled to make
good their escape, and presently reach the vicinity of the hotel, rather
out of breath, and looking somewhat the worse for their strange
adventures.
Professor Sharpe has been glowing with pride and satisfaction up to the
moment they reach the caravansary, then all of a sudden he seems to
collapse.
A sound comes from a window above; a clear, sibilant sound; a human
voice uttering one word, but investing it with a volume of reproach
beyond description.
That word:
"Philander!"
The doughty little professor, who has proved himself as brave as a lion
in the face of actual and overwhelming danger, now shows positive signs
of flunking. He clutches the arm of his fellow-adventurer, and whispers:
"John Craig, remember your solemn promise."
"Never fear; I'll stand by you, professor."
"Philander Sharpe!"
This time the inflection is more positive and acrid. It is no longer a
tone of plaint and entreaty, but touches the Caudle lecture style. Of
course, he can no longer ignore the presence of his better half.
"It's I, Gwendolin," he says, meekly.
"Oh, it is! You've condescended to take some notice of me at last. Well,
I'm glad to see you. Come up stairs at once, and confess that you've
treated me abominably, you bad man."
"For Heaven's sake let's get in before a crowd gathers," groans the
professor, with a glance of horror up in the direction of the
white-capped head protruding from, the second-story window.
Craig is amused, but takes pity on his companion, so they enter the
hotel together.
"Will you tell her all?" he asks.
"She'll never rest content now until she discovers it," says Philander,
sadly.
"Then make a clean breast. I give you permission to speak of my affairs,
only--"
"What?"
"Somehow I'd rather not have Lady Ruth know about Pauline Potter, and
the foolish whim that causes her to pursue me."
At this Philander chuckles, being able to see through a millstone with a
hole in it.
"I'll warn Gwendolin, then. She entertains a warm feeling for you,
John--always has since making your acquaintance; and after the event of
to-day, or rather yesterday, since it is past the witching hour of
midnight, she is ready to do anything for you."
"Well, good-night, professor," with a warm shake of the hand, for what
they have passed through in common to-night will make these two the best
of friends.
When John Craig finds himself alone, he does not at once retire to
his small room. Sleep is one of the last things he thinks of just at
present, his mind has been so wrought up by the events of the night.
The hotel remains open. It is not customary, for there are no late
trains to come in at Valetta, and the people keep early hours, as a
usual thing, but this is an exceptional time of the year, preceding
Lent, and there may be some other reason besides that causes an
all-night open house.
Doctor Chicago finds a chair, and seats himself, first of all to reflect
upon the singular train of events that has marked a red cross in his
career since the last sunrise.
His stricken arm pains him, but he has not the slightest fear as to the
ultimate outcome of that episode; the self-inflicted scorching with the
hot iron effectually ended that.
At last he draws out the piece of paper which Philander secured in the
room that marked their downfall, the paper that bears the signature of
Sister Magdalen.
Lady Ruth's reminiscence has thus proved of great value to him.
He takes out one of the notes which came periodically to him--it is the
one that bore the postmark of Valetta, Malta. Holding the two side by
side, he eagerly compares them.
"Yes, the same hand penned both--I would swear to that."
Long he muses, sitting there. The papers have been put away, his cigar
falls unheeded to the floor, and his thoughts fly far away.
Finally he arises, with a sigh, and seeks his room, to rest very poorly,
between the pain of his arm and the worry of his mind.
Another day dawns upon Valetta.
As yet the tourists, who sojourn at the city of Malta by the sea, have
received no intimation that the disabled steamer is in a condition to
proceed.
This means another day on the island, for which few are really sorry, as
Valetta is not an unpleasant place in winter.
Our friends gather around the breakfast-table, and conversation is
brisk. More than once Lady Ruth watches the face of John Craig. She is
anxious to hear what success he met with on the preceding night, and
will doubtless find an opportunity for a quiet little chat after the
meal.
On his part, Craig is uneasy, feeling that he owes her a recital of
facts, and yet loth to tell her anything about Pauline Potter, for he
is ashamed of his boyish infatuation with regard to the Chicago actress.
So he dallies over his breakfast, hoping that something will turn up to
lead their thoughts in another channel, and at least give them a longer
respite. Perhaps a message will come from the steamer announcing an
immediate sailing.
He is eager to be off. Whatever was in the note Philander picked up in
the house of the Strada Mezzodi, it has given John a feverish anxiety to
reach some other port.
Ah! here is the good captain of the Hyperion himself, a jolly sea-dog
whom every passenger clings to in time of storm and trouble, and who
buoys up trembling souls, fearful of the worst, with his hearty,
good-natured manner.
He announces aloud for the benefit of his passengers that a notice just
posted in the office of the hotel gives the time of the vessel's sailing
at seven in the evening, and all passengers are requested to be on board
before that hour, if possible.
This means another day on shore. It means that John Craig cannot longer
elude the recital of his night's adventures to Lady Ruth.