The course of the _Flyer_ to the Austro-Hungarian capital was
southeasterly, and it was already dusk by the time the vicinity was
reached. Had it only been lighter the boys might have been treated to a
magnificent view of the outlying ranges of the Alps directly in front
of them, with the ancient historic city lying there below on the right
bank of the lordly Danube.
Their approach had, however, been seen, and long before they reached
the city ten or twelve military aeroplanes were hovering excitedly
about them. According to directions given by the commandant at
Przemysl, the boys hung out two flags--one German, the other
Austrian--and, encouraged by the sight of these, one aviator more
daring than his comrades, planed up parallel with them, shouting in
German:
“Who are you, aeronauts?”
Bob answered him from one of the outer runways.
“Friends from Przemysl with a wounded soldier,” he shouted through a
megaphone. “We want to alight in the city as near the largest hospital
as possible. Will you show us the way?”
“What is the code word?” questioned the circling Austrian aviator,
still suspicious.
“The Double-headed Eagle and a Third Crown,” replied Bob, as instructed
by the governor.
This apparently satisfied the airman, who at once passed the word to
his flying companions and the whole crowd of aircraft descended upon
the city like a flock of sparrows settling down upon a telegraph wire.
The Austrian flyers guided the _Ocean Flyer’s_ direction of descent.
A landing was successfully accomplished in the Prater, which is a vast
expanse of wood and park on the east side of the city between the river
Danube and the Danube “canal.” Here in former times the fashionable and
the blue-blooded rolled in stately carriages along the Haupt-Allee, and
the light-hearted, pleasure-loving middle-classes whiled away their
time boisterously in the Wurstel Prater.
Now all was very different though. This plaisance of indolent fashion
was changed to a military aviation field. Flimsily constructed plank
hangars dotted the terraces all around the celebrated Rotunda, and
wireless apparatus towered gaunt and skeleton-like into the air.
High-powered automobiles, driven with reckless speed, were rushing
between there and the city across the canal.
It is hardly necessary to relate here the astonishment and curiosity
of the Austrian aviators over the _Ocean Flyer_ as it finally alighted
in their midst. Alan was selected to remain in charge of it, while the
three other boys and the wounded Racoszky were whirled rapidly into
Vienna in one of the waiting automobiles. On the way Bob told the two
officers who accompanied them the pathetic story of the invalid, and
they were at once all sympathy for him.
“Since the old count is the sort of man you say he is, you will
probably find him to-morrow dawdling in the ‘Inner City’ where the
palaces are, or else driving here along the Ringstrasse,” said one of
the officers. “You may not believe it, sir, but practically no steps
have been taken to fortify Vienna here against capture. The military
aviation corps is supposed to guard aerial approach, and nobody save
the good old Emperor seems to take other dangers seriously.
“Our nobility is too pleasure-loving, too loath to acknowledge
responsibility. To-day, with all of our outside territory in the throes
of a death struggle, with three nations across our borders, and with
the ugly rumble of national revolution, the fashionables still parade
grandly about, affecting to ignore conditions. Last week there were
bread riots and the scum of the city’s alleys and back streets sacked
shops throughout the Leopoldstadt district. It took two regiments of
soldiers to drive them back. Conspiracy is rank around us; pestilence
stalks abroad through the byways. I hear that Bohemia is already in
revolt. No one knows what terrible disaster will come in the next news
from the front.
“The aged Emperor can do nothing but sit there in the Hofburg, while
his peers, fled here in terror from all other parts of the kingdom,
spend their time in the gambling casinos, dance as if frenzied in the
_Zinspaeleste_ or, believing the end of the world at hand, are lost to
religion, morality and the commonest decencies of mankind in debauching
there in the Tabarin and vice-sinks like it.
“All day long they ride in landaus with silk parasols, lap-dogs and
frippery, where cavalry divisions should be maneuvering. Silk hats are
seen where helmets ought to gleam. The cane is more widely flourished
here than the sword! But ‘drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.’”
As the indignant officer paused in his tirade, the automobile wheeled
into the Alsergrund district and in a few seconds more was at the foot
of the great flight of gray stone stairs leading up to the official
military hospital.
“We want to get a light, airy, private room for Lieutenant Racoszky,”
Ned explained to the tired, white-uniformed attendant who met them.
He shook his head wearily, shrugged his shoulders and replied patiently:
“That is what they all say. Each day I hear it hundreds of times--as if
there were room in all of the Alsergrund for half the sick in Vienna!
Is this one of the plague-ridden too?”
Finally, however, accommodations were found for poor Racoszky, and
the boys left, promising to return on the morrow. The officers then
escorted them to their military headquarters, where their story had to
be retold before they were given the liberty of the city. They told too
of the gallant defenders in Przemysl and evoked loud cheers from all
who heard them.
“Ah!” exclaimed one old soldier, “would that I were there to die a
hero’s death with them, rather than standing guard over this madhouse
here!”
Inasmuch as the night was still young, the boys decided to look about
the city a bit before returning to Alan and the _Flyer_ out in the
Prater. In a rented taxicab they toured the city and found conditions
much as they had been described to them. All of the street lamps,
cafes, dance halls and places of amusement were ablaze with light and
thronged with patrons as if on a gala night. The dreamy strains of a
Strauss or Gungel waltz were weirdly intermingled with the barbaric
staccato of banjorines thrumming the latest tango.
The shocked and astounded boys sat for a few moments in the gallery
surrounding one of the huge dance pavilions where hilarity was at its
height. The babel of incongruous noises beat all around them, but every
now and then during a momentary lull in the clamor, they were conscious
of a subdued conversation going on at an adjacent table.
The four men who sat there were neither noisy nor bent on amusement.
That was plain. One was of gigantic physique and wore a huge black,
bristly beard. One was short and unwholesomely fat. He had pouches
under his wicked little pig’s eyes and his skin was blotchy. On his
one hand three rings set with magnificent jewels sparkled. The third
man was evidently from a different social class, for his hands were
stubby, with black-rimmed finger nails and a loose, brutal mouth. The
fourth man at the table sat with his back to the boys and wore a cape
pulled high up so as almost completely to muffle his face. They all
were leaning with heads close together over the table, scarcely having
tasted the wine in their glasses.
Ned, who sat nearest to them, at one time heard the little fat man with
the rings, saying:
“... best done as you say. To-morrow night I know from His Excellency
the Grand Chancellor that A Certain Distinguished Personage will remove
for the week-end to the imperial chateau of Schoenbrunn. That is only
fifty-five minutes run by motor car from the Hofburg and certainly we
can----”
The blare of music beneath the gallery as the giddy dance resumed,
drowned his further utterance. By and by, though, Ned again caught a
disjointed phrase or two:
“... only a guard of ten Hussars ... servants in the chateau all
bribed. We’re sure of them ... he sleeps ordinarily in that suite in
the southwest wing, easily reached by a ladder against the wall.... No!
no! Don’t use your knife, Ottaker, you fool! He is so old and feeble
that a good minute’s grip on his windpipe will finish him!”
“And the Lerchenfeld cathedral chimes will go ‘_Ding, dong, ding! Ding,
dong, ding!_ Franz Joseph dead! Franz Joseph----’”
Both the fat little man and he of the enveloping cape swung quickly
around and eyed the near-by boys sharply. Ned met their scrutiny
innocently enough.
The iron jaw and full eyes of the man in the cloak impressed themselves
indelibly upon his memory.
“Huh!” grunted the fat man, as he turned, back to his companions.
“They don’t matter--only young boys--maybe tourists caught over here by
the war!”
Ned furtively motioned Bob Russell closer to him.
“Bob,” he whispered, “those men are talking in French, although they
are every one Austrians, and I can understand them.”
“Well, what of it?” asked Bob, puzzled.
“Just this!” breathed Ned. “They are plotting to assassinate the
Emperor to-morrow night!”