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The Popular Magazine, 20 Nov 1923, with "The Scarlet Jackals of Seville"
James Francis Dwyer
JAMES FRANCIS DWYER (1874-1952) was an Australian writer. Born in Camden Park, New South Wales, Dwyer worked as a postal assistant until he was convicted in a scheme to make fraudulent postal orders and sentenced to seven years imprisonment in 1899. In prison, Dwyer began writing, and with the help of another inmate and a prison guard, had his work published in The Bulletin. After completing his sentence, he relocated to London and then New York, where he established a successful career as a writer of short stories and novels. Dwyer later moved to France, where he wrote his autobiography, Leg-Irons on Wings, in 1949. Dwyer wrote over 1,000 short stories during his career, and was the first Australian-born person to become a millionaire from writing. —Wikipedia
Mr. Robert Henry Blane of Houston, Texas, waives the too-solicitous services of the escort provided by No. 37, and proceeds by water to Spain and freedom. His fancy bids him to Seville, his luck abets his fancy, and the romance of old Spain welcomes him with open arms.
IT was a fellow of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, who penned the report of the sensational escape of Robert Henry Blane, known as The Texan Wasp. The account appeared in the Gibraltar Chronicle, and the writer was very proud of it. He bragged about his descriptive powers to friends in the little cafe he frequented in Waterport Street.
The Cambridge man had taken the hobbles off his old typewriter and aired his knowledge. He began with a comparison between Robert Henry Blane and gentlemen adventurers of other days. He mentioned Claude Duval, Captain Starface, Leonardo the Grand, "Swift Nick" Levison, Jack Sheppard, Count Peter—"The Masked Devil"—and many others; then, after asserting that the life of The Texan Wasp was more adventurous than the life of any one of the persons he had named, he told of the happening that took place at the Old Mole Gate of Gibraltar harbor on a late afternoon in early May. Told of it in that ponderous, long-winded manner that one expects from an English university man. Said the Cambridge Tripos winner:
The imaginative Dumas would have exulted in the impudence of this American, whom he would have thought a lit companion for his inimitable four—D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. This fellow from Texas—one of the largest States of America—is, in the words of Sam Weller, "a warm potato!" Captured in Algeria, this "Wasp," as he is called, was brought from Tangier on hoard the Gibel-Zerton of the Bland Line, and when the boat was entering the Old Mole Gate the fellow, by specious arguments, induced his guard to allow him on deck.
He was brought up, securely handcuffed to the wrist of the guard, and the two stood close to the rail as the boat came slowly in. Suddenly this American turned upon the detective, lifted him in a most surprising manner and leaped with him into the water before the astounded passengers could interfere. An English officer, who was an eyewitness of the action, considers it the most extraordinary piece of impudence that has ever come under his notice.
In the leap this American, or, more correctly, this Texan, managed to snap the connecting links of the handcuff that bound him to the guard, so that when he struck the water he was free. He started to swim seaward but discovered that the guard, unable to swim, was sinking. The fellow turned, supported the detective till a life buoy was thrown from the Gibel-Zerton then, with a jeering laugh at the distinguished passengers who lined the rail, he swam away at an incredible rate of speed. A fog was drifting in from the Strait at the moment and he was soon lost to sight.
This American is described as a great athlete. It is even rumored, with what degree of truth we do not know, that he won prizes for swimming when a student at one of the large American colleges! It is thought that he may have headed for Algeciras.
SO much for the Cambridge man. Robert Henry Blane did head for
Algeciras. Gibraltar seemed a cold forbidding place with the Ten
Commandments pasted upon the face of the big rock; Spain stood
for color and music, for light and laughter and gayety. Spain was
Romance.
A lovesick carabinero, guarding a stretch of coast, heard the tinkling of a guitar plucked by the long fingers of a black-eyed señorita that he loved, and he forgot orders. He left his post for a few moments to kiss the white hand that was thrust down to him through the trellis of the arbor, and in those few moments Robert Henry Blane made a landing in Spain. He was free. Wet and tired and penniless, but free.
The Wasp circled the town, crossed the Palmones River and halted in a grove of cork trees above the main road that swept away up through glorious, golden Andalusia to Seville. A wonder road. A road along which had gone splendid cavalcades in the dead centuries. A highway upon which had tramped Carthaginian, Roman, Goth and Moor. Over its dusty stretches had ridden The Cid; Don Alonzo de Aguilar, that mirror of Spanish chivalry; Ponce de Leon, and a thousand others whose names are famous.
"I'll rest and see what fortune sends me," murmured The Wasp, then addressing the branches of the trees above him as if the god of good luck sat in the boughs he added: "I would like to go to Seville. The word is singing in my brain."
There passed picturesque peasants from Los Barrios and San Roque, queer country folk that drove sheep and cattle before them; gypsy caravans with scouting dogs as lean as their masters; carts with loads of cork from Castellar and loads of wine from the sherry country stretching from Algeciras to Jerez. And then to The Texan Wasp in his ambush appeared a miracle.
Across the river swung a gayly painted caravan drawn by two fat mules. A driver, wearing a white, stiff-brimmed sombrero, sat out in front, affectionately flicking the shining hides of the mules and joining now and then in the chorus of a song chanted by some one within the vehicle. The song roused The Texan Wasp. He sat up and listened intently. The soft warm wind from the river brought the words up to him. They thrilled him. The Spanish driver's pronunciation was not all that could be desired, but the unseen singer had a voice that defied the little twists given to the words. The song swept up the road and echoed against the hills over which the night was stealing softly:
"We'll put for the Souf! Ah, dat's de place
For the steeplechase and the bully-boss race;
Poker, brag, euchre, seven-lip, and loo;
Den chime in, niggers, won't you come along, too?"
The Texan Wasp sprang to his feet and joined in on the chorus.
"No use talkin' when de niggers want to go
Where the corntop blossoms and the cane brake grow:
Den come along to Cuba and we'll dance the polka-juba
Down Souf where de corn brakes grow."
An order, roared in a voice of thunder, came from the inside of the painted caravan; the driver tugged at the reins and the fat mules halted. A head was thrust out between the flaps at the rear and a question was hurled at the grove that concealed Robert Henry Blane.
"Who in the name of all creation is singing?"
The Texan Wasp stepped out into the roadway and bowed to the owner of the caravan. "Good afternoon, Jimmy," he said sweetly. "I was just dozing in the grove when I heard a voice that I knew. How do you come to be in this part of the world?"
James Dewey Casey, the little American fighter who was known as "The Just-So Kid," took a flying leap from the wagon and grabbed the hands of Robert Henry Blane. He was followed by a large, black billy goat—one of the short-haired breed that you find on the islands of the Mediterranean—and just for a moment the meeting between the two men was upset by the goat's belief that his master had been attacked and required assistance.
"Down, you blighter!" roared The Just-So Kid. "Don't you know a prince when you see one? Get down on your knees or I'll make you walk all the way to Seville."
Robert Henry Blane laughed as the billy goat obeyed the order, then he addressed the little pugilist. "Jimmy," he said, "I was just sitting there dreaming of places that I'd like to visit. And Seville was the one place that I had a hankering for. Curiously, I had no money, so I made a little prayer to the black-cat mascot I carry in my pocket and round the bend came your caravan with its fat mules."
The Just-So Kid waved his hand toward the wagon. "It's yours, boss!" he cried. "The mules, Don Ignatz, the driver, an' the wagon. It's all yours. Ignatz isn't a bad chap. I named him after a mouse in a comic strip that I used to read when I was living in America." For a moment the little fighter remained silent looking at the black goat, then he spoke again. "Why, you can have Rafferty if you want him!" he said. "He's yours! An' he's the best fightin' goat that the world has ever seen!"
"Jimmy," said the smiling Wasp, "I want a ride toward Seville. That's all. I've just swam across the bay from the Rock and I'm a little tired. Let's go."
Rafferty sprang back into the vehicle, Robert Henry Blane and The Just-So Kid followed, Don Ignatz cracked the whip, and the fat mules moved off.
Up through enchanted Andalusia, by sun-drenched roads of sweet romance The Texan Wasp moved toward "La Tierra de Maria Santísima" as the splendid country around Seville is called by its inhabitants. By paths of poetry that wound their way through groves of olives, oranges and pomegranates, by old crumbling towns that had grown beautiful in death the fat mules and the painted caravan came to Seville, the golden city, that sits beside the tawny Guadalquivir. And all the world had come to Seville. It was the time of the Feria, the great fair, and the city was crowded.
"Boss," said The Just-So Kid, "the caravan is yours. You saved my life at Marseilles the time you tossed me that fifty an'—"
"Jimmy," interrupted Robert Henry Blane. "I've a small cache in Seville. Four years ago I was here but I left in such a hurry that I hadn't time to draw some funds that I had in the Banco Hispaño-Americano on Calle de las Sierpes. If I can prove I am Robert Henry Blane I'm well heeled. Let's see if they remember."
The polite cashier listened to the story told by The Texan Wasp, took a specimen signature, consulted several large ledgers, then returned to the waiting American.
"We have seven thousand pesetas to the credit of Señor Robert Henry Blane," he said suavely. "The account has not been operated for some years."
"Jimmy," said The Wasp, '"what does Rafferty like more than anything else?"
"Carrot tops," replied The Just-So Kid.
"Then, we'll take a taxicab and buy him a hundredweight of them!" cried Robert Henry Blane. "Come on!"
THE Feria of Seville is one of the greatest festivals
in the world. It is probably the greatest. It is
stupendous, gargantuan, a little gross. It throws one back into
the fifteenth century, into days of Elizabethan license and
gayety. It dwarfs the tame carnivals of Nice and Rome, the
gondola processions of Venice, and the Neapolitan Easter
festivals. The Feria is a left-over from the fat days of
old; a splendid unloosening of the knotted belt of high morale
that the centuries have tied around the waist of pleasure. It
brings thousands from every town in Spain; thousands from France
and England; thousands from America. Hotel prices are doubled.
The city forgets sleep. The Sevillians dance and sing for three
days and three nights.
It was on the second night of the Feria that Dame Adventure tapped the shoulder of Robert Henry Blane and bade him follow. A glorious night. The perfume of spring was upon the city; the music of castanets and of guitars—the instruments beloved by the gay Andalusians—swept up into the sky and formed an invisible bed on which the little stars danced.
The Texan Wasp, in carnival costume and wearing the stiff-brimmed sombrero of the land, had picked his way across the crowded Prado de San Sebastian and halted for a moment to watch a gay game on the Paseo de Cataluia. Ten of the sweetest daughters of Seville had offered their services for charity. They were seated on a plush-covered dais above a monster revolving disk, and for a single peseta a chance the dashing caballeros of the city could attempt to reach their lips by means of the swiftly moving and cunningly greased disk.
"For the poor!" cried the announcer. "Give to the poor! The poor of the Cathedral de Santa Maria de la Sede!"
Robert Henry Blane was amused. One by one the gayly dressed gallants sprang upon the great disk and attempted to ride upright the half circle that separated them from the red-lipped damsels on the dais. One by one they were thrown ignominiously and swept into the padded scupper that was beneath the platform of the goddesses. The watching crowd applauded each new contestant as he paid his peseta, were silent for an instant as he stepped upon the whirling disk, then broke into mad screams of laughter as the greased floor was whipped from under him, rolling the ambitious one, soiled and crestfallen, into the padded trough from which the attendants rescued him.
The Texan Wasp looked at the ten young women on the dais. Wonderfully beautiful were the ten. They possessed all the points of beauty for which the señoritas of Seville are famous. Their teeth shone like rows of baby pearls between lips that had the wet redness of hollyhocks at dawn. Their eyes were big and black and shining; their hair was piled in high masses, above which rose the great tortoise-shell combs beloved by the maids of Andalusia. Lace mantillas shaded the soft faces, and embroidered shawls that were worth untold pesetas hung from the white and shapely shoulders. The Cathedral de Santa Maria de la Sede had wisely chosen the sweetest ten to work for the poor.
The most beautiful of the 'half score caught the eye of The Texan Wasp. Across the great whirling disk the man and the maid looked at each other. The eyes of the tall American plainly expressed his admiration; the eyes of the maid of Seville flung a challenge across the intervening space. The flashing black eyes dared him to ride the whirling disk in an effort to reach her moist red lips.
Robert Henry Blane smiled. The maid smiled back at him. The loud-voiced announcer screamed his adjurations to the night. "For the poor!" he bawled. "Give to the poor! One peseta for a chance to kiss the sweetest mouths of all Andalusia. Aye, and of Granada and Estramadura! There are no señoritas as fair as these in all of Spain!"
The Texan Wasp moved toward the spot where the announcer marshaled the contestants, permitting them to step one after the other onto the greasy disk, it was a night to venture. A golden moon rode high above the Guadalquivir; breezes charged with the perfume of flowering trees came from the gardens and the Paseo de las Delicias along which lovers strolled.
An arrogant competitor, already convinced that his lips were pressing those of the most beautiful of the señoritas, shouldered The Wasp on the little runway. Robert Henry Blane returned the compliment. The arrogant one turned and surveyed the American coldly.
"The señor must be careful," he said slowly.
"You are evidently speaking to yourself," retorted The Wasp. "Sort of warning yourself against trouble, are you not?"
The Spaniard stopped. He was a tall, well-made fellow dressed in a carnival costume of black velvet. A striking and picturesque figure to the casual observer but the face would have disclosed a lot to an acute student of physiognomy. It was a mean face, crisscrossed with lines etched by greed and cowardice and by cold cruelty. In a high-pitched querulous voice he addressed Robert Henry Blane.
"The señor must stand back till I make my effort," he said. "I am before him."
The Wasp laughed. "On the contrary, I am before you," he said. "It is a small matter, but you are so rude that I refuse to stand back."
The eyes of the crowd were upon the two men on the runway. The ten damsels were interested. The American and the Spaniard standing together on the plank attracted the attention of all.
The announcer was quick to see the opportunity that offered to gather in pesetas for the poor of the cathedral. "Let the most generous señor have the place!" he cried. "The señor with the largest heart must go first! That is the rule!"
The Spaniard tossed a ten-peseta bill to the loud-mouthed cormorant. The Wasp retorted by throwing him a bill for twenty-five pesetas.
"Place for the Americano!" roared the announcer. "The Americano has a heart like the good Bishop Baltasar del Rio!"
The Spaniard flung back his cape and a little murmur came from the crowd, a murmur whose meaning was hidden from The Texan Wasp. The inside of the mantle was decorated with an embroidered figure of a small animal—to the quick eyes of the Texan it appeared to be a representation of a jackal—and the momentary glimpse of the thing appeared to have an effect upon the crowd.
It also had an effect upon the master of ceremonies. He became immediately obsequious. The owner of the cloak flung a bill of fifty pesetas into the fellow's outstretched hand, and the announcer with a continuous muttering of "Mucho gracias" tried to thrust the Texan aside so that the Spaniard could step upon the disk.
But Robert Henry Blane had come to a definite decision upon the matter of precedence. He told himself that he would either make the attempt before the Spaniard or he would ride with him in the direction of the fair damsels upon the dais. Hurriedly he flung a hundred-peseta note of the Banco de España at the announcer and held his place beside the other. For an instant he caught the eye of the beauty who had challenged him to make the attempt. Her face, lit up by excitement, held him to his purpose.
The Spaniard stepped upon the whirling disk. The Texan Wasp stepped with him. For an instant the two stood upright as the swiftly moving thing shot them forward, and in that instant the quick brain of the American acted. He tore from his own shoulders the carnival cape, dropped it swiftly and stood upon it. It gave his feet a purchase upon the greased floor of the disk.
Whizz! whizz! The revolving platform tried to wrench itself from under the feet of the two who had insanely stepped onto it. Buzz! Zurr! Some one had tickled the engine that whirled the wooden disk in its mad revolutions!
The Spaniard swayed. He flung out his arms in a wild effort to steady himself! He slipped, fell to the floor and was hurled by the motion of the disk into the padded trough. He whizzed by the feet of The Wasp like a black python being flung into space!
The greased surface of the disk tried to rid itself of the cape on which rode Robert Henry Blane. It couldn't. The tall Texan balanced himself as he had learned to balance during years when he competed at fancy riding competitions at Prescott, Arizona; Cody, Wyoming; Bozeman, Montana; and a score of other places where good riders gathered. The crowd screamed! The malefactor at the engine throttle reversed. The disk stopped for an instant, whirled itself in the opposite direction, stopped again and sprang forward! The Wasp had a vision of a purple-covered dais with a score of eyes brighter than those of the sirens who sang to Ulysses! He gathered himself together and sprang!
He landed before the knees of the maiden who had challenged him. The crowd shouted approval. He had conquered the disk.
Robert Henry Blane rose. He was a splendid athletic figure as he stood bareheaded beneath the electric lights. With the grace of Pierre Vidal, the prince of troubadours, he bent down and kissed the red lips that the damsel offered willingly, then he stepped from the platform.
The crowd moved back as the Texan sprang to the ground and into the little cleared circle came a disturbing figure. It was the Spaniard who had disputed the matter of precedence on the runway leading to the revolving disk. On the end of a cane he held the soiled cape of Robert Henry Blane which the Texan had tossed beneath his own feet to enable him to stand upright on the greased board, and he thrust the garment insultingly in the face of the American.
"The señor's clothes are so poor that they fall from him," he said sneeringly.
The Texan Wasp plucked the cape from the cane and tossed it into the face of the other. "I left it for the señor who lost," he cried. "It is the consolation prize."
The Spaniard, startled for a moment by the smothering wallop in the face, sprang forward in a curious catlike manner and was met by the unbending left which The Wasp thrust out to meet him. It sent him sprawling backward and before he could rise the alert, well-dressed police of Seville had thrust themselves into the scene of combat.
The Spanish police have a desire to gather in brawlers and onlookers. They grab at the nearest person, and Robert Henry Blane, blessed this particular kink in their makeup. While two husky members of the Guardia Municipal fell upon a burly onlooker, The Wasp slipped away.
Near the corner of the Calle San Fernando and the Paseo de Santelmo a weird figure in slouch hat and cape sidled up to Robert Henry Blane and spoke in a whisper.
"Run, señor!" he gasped. "Run!"
"Why?" questioned The Wasp. "You have quarreled with the leader of the Scarlet Jackals!" whispered the ghost of Don Quixote. "They will kill you! Run for your life! The city of Seville is not large enough to shelter the person they hate!"
Robert Henry Blane laughed. "Run off yourself, Don Q!" he said jestingly. "I'm enjoying myself immensely."
TWO hours later the person in charge of the revolving disk
that was working for the poor of the Cathedral de Santa Maria de
la Sede decided to call k a day. He stopped the disk and
gallantly helped the ten señoritas from the dais. It had been a
very successful evening. The collision between The Wasp and the
head of the Scarlet Jackals had fattened the bag considerably.
The fellow grinned as lie thought over it. It was clever of the
church to harness the flesh and the devil in its service.
The most beautiful of the half score maidens turned as she reached the ground and found herself face to face with a tall and smiling person whose Spanish carried the soft drawl of the South as he spoke.
"It is all over?" asked Robert Henry Blane.
The beautiful one nodded her shapely head. "For to-night, señor," she murmured. "To-morrow we will work again for the poor."
"The lucky poor," said The Wasp, then he added: "I wonder if one of their number could act as an escort to the señorita. A humble delegate from the Confederacy of the Poor."
The girl looked puzzled. "Where is he?" she asked.
Robert Henry Blane bowed. "Before you, señorita," he said smiling. "The poor of the world sent me to Seville to thank you for your efforts and to beg you to let me act as your escort."
The señorita laughed gayly. "I live a long way from here," she said, "and, curiously, I love walking."
"The members of our confederacy always walk," said The Wasp.
"My father's home is on the Calle Méndez-Nuñez, near the Plaza del Pacifico," she whispered.
"It is but a step," said Robert Henry Blane. "I had hopes," he added gallantly, "that it was many kilometres on the highroad to Cordova."
The night had grown more beautiful. The big moon had gathered around herself a cluster Of lambkin clouds that had lost themselves in space; the night breezes had found caches of new perfumes; the echo of castanets and guitars hung in the air. The gayest and most pleasing town in all the world was experiencing her gayest and most pleasing moments.
Robert Henry Blane and the lovely daughter of Old Seville walked back toward the center of the city. She told her name. It was Dolores de Riano. Her father was a merchant on the Calle del Gran Capitán. Her age, she whispered sweetly, was "twenty-one, less three days." The soft night wind ran off with the secret.
The two crossed the Plaza de la Constitución, turned into the Calle de Tetuan, and dropped down a narrow alley toward Méndez-Nuñez. And in this alley the hate of the head of the Scarlet Jackals was made manifest to Robert Henry Blane. A cloak that seemed as large as the camel's-hair carpet of Mohammed was flung over the bead of the Texan, and the hands of four highwaymen attempted to press its folds tight around his face.
It was one of these invisible hands that gave Robert Henry Blane his leverage. He seized the fellow's wrist as the thug deftly attempted to smother the victim—seized it with his own two powerful hands, then, although blinded by the cloak, he swung the attacker off his feet and whirled him round in á tremendous circle.
It was a performance that possessed something of the primitive. The human flail, unseen by the man who was wielding it, went out on a crashing circuit. The flying body and legs cannoned against the three others and bowled them over like so many ninepins!
One of the three, falling to the street, clutched the legs of The Wasp and pulled him down. The cloak was still around the head of the Texan but he fought himself free of it and belabored the two men who were still clinging to him. A handful of red pepper was thrown and the American; was enveloped in the shower. It was a mad mêlée, Blane hitting out at every vulnerable portion of the three who tried to batter him into insensibility. Round them as they fought flitted night birds and inquisitive onlookers. Somewhere at the end of the narrow street a loud-voiced citizen bellowed for the police.
The Wasp, upon his knees, connected with the jaw of a big scoundrel who was heaving himself on top of him. The fellow dropped and as he fell the shrill scream of a whistle bit into the soft night. It ran like a pointed needle into the darkness, and the three other attackers halted for a second, turned and fled. The sound of marching feet came from Calle de Tetuan.
Robert Henry Blane sprang to his feet. The stunned thug lay upon the ground but Blane was not concerned with him. His thoughts were of Dolores de Riano. Where was she?
The narrow alley was cluttered with skulking queer people who sprang out of the way of the American as he rushed around seeking the girl. The police arrived and sprang immediately upon the stunned bandit who was endeavoring to get to his feet. Blane cunningly evaded a bright police lieutenant who was weaving in and out of the babbling crowd. He told himself that he had to find the girl. The attack was nothing. He had given more than he had received, and just for the moment he forgot the quartet that had attacked him with such little profit to themselves.
The Wasp hurried down the alley toward Calle Mendez-Nuñez. He brushed aside the jabbering mob that were attracted from the bigger street by the riot in the lane. He disregarded their shouted questions as to what had happened.
The lane turned abruptly as it neared Mendez-Nuñez and there in the dark angle The Texan Wasp found the girl he sought. She crouched in the shadows, sobbing softly, and for the instant she did not recognize her escort when he spoke to her.
"It is I, the American," cried Blane.
"Oh," gasped the girl, "I thought they would kill you! I thought—"
"Your shawl?" cried Blane. "Your shawl and necklace?"
The girl flung out her white arms in a gesture of despair. Upon the shapely wrist the light of the moon showed an angry scratch. She made a swift movement of her white fingers to her perfect throat and a queer hysterical laugh came from the red lips.
"Come away!" she cried. "They are the Jackals! The Scarlet Jackals! They are murderers and thieves! They took everything from me while the four were trying to kill you! Quick! Come away!"
Robert Henry Blane turned to rush back up the alley but the girl clung to him. "Don't leave me!" she cried. "I am afraid! Take me home! Our house is near! Take me home!"
The Wasp stood for a moment undecided. A man coming from the scene of disturbance cried out an answer to a question thrown at him by a youth who was hurrying toward the spot. "The Jackals!" cried the information giver. "The Jackals are on the job! Look out!"
Dolores de Riano, hysterical now, clung to the arm of The Texan Wasp. "Please take me home! No, no! At once!"
There was nothing else to be done. Robert Henry Blane with a choler that made speech impossible turned and hurried with the girl down the alley, swung to the right along Méndez-Nuñez toward the Plaza del Pacifico. There was nothing pacific about The Wasp. He was a very wild and angry American. His affair on the revolving disk in the earlier part of the night had brought down upon his head the wrath of the very select gang of murderous thugs who terrified the town; and their annoyance with him had brought misfortune upon the girl. He was a volcano of undiluted deviltry as he hurried along with the girl.
The home of Señor Juan de Riano was one of those Seville houses that are the most wonderful in the world. It possessed splendid entrance gates of wrought iron which opened into the enormous patio, and in the patio The Wasp met the father of the girl. An angry and sneering father when informed of what had happened. He looked Robert Henry Blane up and down and showed his contempt for the tall Texan in a manner that would have been exceedingly dangerous if he had been a younger person.
"The jewels are nothing," he said boastingly. "I am rich. The shawl I loved. It was the shawl of her mother and it is one of the most wonderful in all Spain."
Robert Henry Blane found an opportunity to make a comment. "The shawl and the jewels will be returned before morning," he said quietly.
The concerted merchant paused and looked at the American. "Before morning?" he questioned.
"Yes, señor," answered The Wasp.
Señor Juan de Riano laughed contemptuously. He opened his big mouth and flung his head back and laughed again. The words tapped some secret store of mirth within his fat frame and he became a perfect gusher of hoarse laughter. The girl, still hysterical and terrified, shrank back in the shadows.
Robert Henry Blane turned toward the iron grating that separated the patio from the vestibule. Señor Juan de Riano, still gurgling, followed him. The Wasp stepped out and the fat father controlled himself for a moment to turn his sneers into words. He lifted a bloated forefinger and pointed it warningly at The Texan.
"The Scarlet Jackals have killed a lot of men that were bigger than you," he said. "Much bigger and, perhaps, braver. This Spain of ours has bred many brave men, señor! Be careful! One stranger is nothing for the Scarlet Jackals to gobble up. A great fighter is at their head. My daughter has said that you came into collision with him this evening at the Prado de San Sebastian. Then take care! He hates Americans. They are his chief dish. Ah, a perfect devil is Hernando de Delgado! Look out for him!"
Robert Henry Blane bowed and walked out into the street, but as he reached the sidewalk the jeering voice of the Señor Juan de Riano halted him. "If you catch him, señor," cried the Spaniard, "bring him here to speak to me. Ring three times and I will come down no matter what the hour. But mind your ears! There are many people in Andalusia who wear their hair long on account of Hernando de Delgado."
FROM somewhere high up in the old houses that reared
themselves up from the dark street came the dashing strains of
the "Habañera" from "Carmen." Fitting music' for Seville, the
golden city in which the hectic heroine lived and died.
In the shadows across from the house from which the music proceeded crouched The Texan Wasp, and beside the American squatted the weird ghost of the large sombrero and the cape who had urged Robert Henry Blane to fly after the disturbance at the revolving disk. In the pockets of the old outcast were ten of the big silver dollars—fat, heavy duros with which the Texan had bribed the replica of Don Quixote.
"What floor?" questioned The Wasp.
"The fourth, señor," gasped Don Quixote. "The fourth. You cannot see because the blinds are strong and heavy."
"And the way up?"
The owner of the big sombrero made a queer noise with his throat. "There is no way up, señor," he whispered. "By the stairs, yes, but the stairs will take you quicker to heaven than to the cave of the Jackals. There have been others that have tried."
The Texan Wasp growled. "They didn't wish to get there as badly as I do, Don Q.," he said slowly. "I wish to be there and out again before the dawn."
The ancient outcast breathed a prayer. "The señor will be in paradise by dawn if he attempts to get into the place," he murmured. "It has been attempted before. Ah, yes! There was a clever policeman in Seville and he tried. Where is he now? In the cemetery! There is a beautiful stone above him, with his name printed on it in gold letters. And do you know who put up that stone? Listen! People say that it was put up by the king of the Jackals. Aye, by Hernando de Delgado himself! He paid the bill."
The Texan Wasp laughed softly. "I have treated you well?" he asked.
"Yes, señor!" cried the outcast.
"Then listen to this. If I'm killed please write a letter to Hernando de Delgado and tell him my name. Will you do that? Just my name, so that it will be printed properly on the stone."
"I will do it gladly," said the unhumorous guide. "What is the name?"
"John Barleycorn," said The Wasp. "I was chased out of America but a lot of my countrymen would like to know where I am buried."
"I will remember," said Don Q. "I think I have heard of that name."
"Possibly," said Robert Henry Blane. "And now, good night."
The weird ghost crept off into the shadows. The Texan Wasp scaled a stone fence and dropped down into a blind alley. He crept along the wall at one side of the alley till he reached a spot where the telephone wires swept down from a roof to flirt with a pole that was thrust up to meet them from the wall. He crouched beneath this pole and looked up at the wires. They were like streaks of black chalk drawn across the face of the setting moon. The Wasp counted them. His mind went back to college days when he had done feats that were close to the impossible. And into his mind as he waited came the words of Señor Juan de Riano. The Spaniard had said that many persons in Andalusia wore their hair long to hide the fact that their ears had been lopped off by the king of the Jackals. "It's a game that one would fancy him playing," growled The Wasp. "But it is dangerous unless you have some one to hold the person you are operating on."
The little lost clouds that the old moon had shepherded during the early part of the night had gathered to themselves so many other lost ones that they partly covered the face of their guardian. The Wasp waited, watching the eclipse. He desired darkness. From high above him the music of "Carmen" came in desultory patches. He listened as he waited. The airs were played by some one who was interrupted at times in a curious manner. The American came to the conclusion that the player in some way was using the music to convey some meaning to others.
The little clouds made a fat, white pillow smothering the moon, and The Wasp stirred. He climbed to the top of the wall, then with a dexterity that was amazing he climbed the pole on which were the wires. He calculated the ascent made by the wires before they connected with another pole that thrust itself out from the back wall of the house that he desired to reach. It seemed a tough job but not altogether impossible.
He gathered four of the wires in his strong hands, and, stretching himself out along their length and holding by one hand, he managed to button his coat with the threads of copper inside. He was buttoned to the wires, and the coat would make a brake that would prevent him from slipping backward as he climbed. For a moment he considered the holding possibility of the pole, then the words of Señor Juan de Riano whipped his soul and he started to climb.
It was a job that required all the strength and suppleness of the man who had been the pride of his college. Slowly, carefully, inch by inch, Robert Henry Blane fought himself forward and upward. Now and then the moon peeped out for an instant and looked at him swinging in space. He was glad that those moments were few and far between. A person at one of the dark windows of the house would have had a fine bull's-eye to blaze at The Wasp thought of the name that he had given to the ghost of Don Quixote. He thought what a joke it would be if Hernando de Delgado put the name "John Barleycorn" on his tombstone. What a surprise it would be to some American prowling through the lonely cemetery behind the military hospital in the years to come!
The moon peeped timidly; Blane glanced upward. Before and above him was the pole that was affixed to the wall. And close to the pole he could see a small window waiting to welcome him.
For a moment the Texan rested. The last two yards seemed impossible. The Wasp said a little prayer to the black-cat mascot in his pocket, then drove himself upward with a superhuman effort.
He clutched the pole and hung limply in space. He moved along it, disengaging himself from the wires. He flung out his right leg and felt the sill of the window!
He considered the possibility of balancing himself upon the window sill. Again the moon showed for an instant. There was no shutter to the window and one of the panes was missing. The Wasp calculated that a swift swing to the sill and a clutch at the frame would be possible.
He let go of the post and snatched at the frame. His fingers were cut by the jagged remnants of the broken pane but he held on. For one desperate moment the depths clawed at him, then he was safe. He thrust his hand in through the opening and turned the rusty lock within. He climbed inside. He was in the attic beneath the roof, a foul-smelling attic that was stuffed with all kinds of things. The music of "Carmen" now came from below.
ROBERT HENRY BLANE sat himself down on a bale beside the
window and considered the matter that he had in hand. It was his
pride that had brought him to the haunt of the gang that
terrified the city. For an instant he told himself that he was
rather stupid to take offense at the words uttered by the fat
father of Dolores de Riano, then in the next moment he assured
himself that he was right in making the promise to deliver back
the shawl and jewels that had been stolen from the girl while she
was in his company.
"They're horse thieves!" he growled. "If I get hold of Señor Delgado, king of the Jackals, there might be a chance for a kind friend to put a nice tombstone on--"
The Texan Wasp paused abruptly and sprang erect. From the roof above him tame the soft sounds of climbing feet. Some one who had no desire to make his position known to the world was on the slate roof immediately above the spot where the Texan was sitting.
Cautiously The Wasp peered out. The ledge of the roof was but four feet above him, and out over the spouting was a leg that was being pushed tentatively into space!
Mr. Blane watched the leg, fascinated by the manner in which it was thrust downward. It was followed by another. They were blind feelers in search of the window sill on which The Wasp leaned. Their owner was clutching the roof and was unable to see where his two limbs were going!
Lower and lower came the legs. They swung before the window. The toes of the shoes kicked the frame. They were within a foot of the face of the Texan. Solid-looking, honest shoes. The Wasp thought them. The kind that honest men wear.
The shoes found the sill; the toes rested on it. There was a pause. The Texan Wasp read the reason for it. Tho unknown found that he could not reach down and clutch the window frame without endangering his safety. Robert Henry Blane, unable now to look out without making his presence known, understood exactly what was happening. The man whose toes rested on the sill could not find a grip that was midway between the spouting and the window frame. The unknown's method of entering the house was a failure!
For five minutes the legs, having done their part of the work in finding the sill, remained inactive while the owner groped ineffectually with his hands. The legs possibly signaled that their toes only rested on the sill. The spirited music that heralds the approach of the bull fight in "Carmen" came from below. It seemed to mock the position of the man who was attempting to reach the window.
A mad impulse gripped Robert Henry Blane. He looked again at the shoes. He knew shoes. He had made a study of them. He was certain that they gave more indications of the character of their wearers than any other part of their apparel. And he was certain that the shoes on the window sill were worn by an honest person. A stubbornly honest person, he thought. He recalled a sheriff that he had known in Deaf Smith County, Texas, in the old days, who had worn shoes that were similar to those on the sill.
Robert Henry Blane reached out, took a grip of the unseen person's legs, then spoke in a soft whisper into the night. "It's all right," he murmured. "I'll hold you. Get a clutch on the window frame!"
There was a moment's indecision on the part of the owner of the legs. Just an instant of appraisal of the words that had been whispered into the night. Then he acted. He let go his grip of the spouting, and two muscular hands reached down and gripped the frame of the window as The Wasp supported him. A strong body blocked the window, shutting out the waning light of the moon, a bullet head appeared, and Robert Henry Blane stepped softly back into the thick darkness of the attic. Mr. Blane had recognized the person he had helped into the room!
The newcomer stood close to the window and endeavored to pierce the gloom. He did not seem in the least afraid, standing so that he was clearly outlined to any one in the darkness who might have wished to take a shot at him. For a full minute he stood thus, then he spoke in a whisper that was even lower than that which The Wasp had used in bidding him to enter the attic. He spoke in passable Spanish. Not the pure tongue of old Castile, by any means, but understandable.
"Thank you, friend," he murmured. "To tell the truth I couldn't get down or up. I guess I owe you something. I don't know why you helped me. I'm a little puzzled."
Robert Henry Blane crouching in the shadows, made a soft explanation, keeping to the tongue that the other used. "I don't own the house," he said. "As a matter of fact I think I would be an unwelcome visitor to the tenants."
Something like an amused gurgle came from the man at the window. "I believe they would think the same about me," he whispered. "That is why I came in over the roof."
Again there was a little silence then The Wasp spoke. "I have a grouch against this bunch," he said, "and I take it that you also wish to pick a bone with them. At other times you might have a disinclination to running in partnership with me, but I have just done you a little service."
"A big service," corrected the other.
"All right, a big service," continued Robert Henry Blane. "Then here is my proposition. For to-night we will fight together. When dawn comes we will break the partnership."
"I'm willing," said the man at the window. "Whoever you are, I'm your partner till dawn if you're fighting the Scarlet Jackals. Come out of the shadow and let me see you."
The Texan Wasp stepped forward. The moon slipped for an instant from beneath the clouds and he stood revealed to the man at the window. A cool man was the person at the window. The tall American was pleased at the manner in which he took the discovery. For just a second he remained quiet, then he spoke.
"Bob Blane," he murmured softly. "Well, well. I knew you had got away from the fools after all my trouble but I didn't expect to meet you here. Why did you make this agreement with me?"
"It stands, doesn't it?" asked The Wasp.
"Sure," said the other. "We're partners till dawn. That is, of course, if you're up against the bunch in this place."
"I'm up against them," snapped Robert Henry Blane. "I'm choking with temper. That's why I'd like a good fighting partner, and, between you and me, I have never found a better fighter than a gentleman known as No. 37."
The great man hunter grunted. "Let's get busy," he said. "I want the leader of this bunch and time is flying."
ROBERT HENRY BLANE and the greatest man hunter in all Europe
crept from the attic and moved cautiously along a narrow hall.
They moved toward a point from which the music surged up from
below. No light was visible, but the strains of "Carmen" directed
them to the opening where the stairs led downward from the attic
floor.
Not a word had passed between the two after the great sleuth had suggested that they should get busy. There was nothing to be said. For once in many months the desires of Robert Henry Blane and No. 37 did not clash. By an extraordinary happening the hate of The Wasp had centered on a criminal that the man hunter desired. The head of the Scarlet Jackals had defied local aw, so the greatest lariat thrower that Justice had in her service had been detailed to rope him.
The Texan Wasp did not think of the agreement as he crawled along the passage. He thought only of the sneers of the fat father of Dolores de Riano. Hot hatred for the fat man flamed up in him. The conceited merchant had told Mr. Blane to be careful of his ears lest the king of the Jackals should lop them off! The Texan would have made a compact with the devil if by so doing he could get even with the band that had assaulted him and robbed the girl that he was escorting home.
It was Robert Henry Blane who found the stairs. He paused and touched the arm of the man at his side. No. 37 understood.
The music rolled up the unprotected opening in the floor of the passage. The two men listened to it for a few moments, then with the »caution that might be used by Dyak head hunters they started to descend.
No sounds of voices came to the man hunter and the tall Texan. At times when the music ceased for an instant the house was as silent as a tomb.
They reached the floor below the attic. The house, built in the Spanish fashion, possessed galleries that looked down into the court. Crawling side by side the two chance-made partners crept to the balcony of the gallery, rose to their feet and looked over.
The court was not lighted, but a soft, luminous glow that filtered out through a heavy silk curtain at the door of a room on the lowest floor made it possible for the two intruders to see. No. 37 leaned toward The Wasp and spoke in a whisper.
"The music carries a message," he murmured. "Some one is listening to it."
Robert Henry Blane nodded. He had come to the same conclusion.
The man hunter was listening intently. The soft glow made it possible for The Texan Wasp to see the strong face of the sleuth as he thrust his head forward in an effort to solve the mystery connected with the continuous playing. Robert Henry Blane noted again the strange details of the face—the details that he had noted on their first meeting at the gambling tables of Monte Carlo. It was an extraordinary aggressive face; the face of a human bloodhound.
For a moment Blane forgot the Scarlet
Jackals. He recalled the remark of a professor at whose feet he had sat in the long ago. The professor had asserted that the worry of Nature was the work of building up antidotes for those experiments of hers that had turned out bad. The Wasp thought that No. 37 was an antidote. For every five hundred persons that turned off the straight and narrow track Dame Nature built a bloodhound of the type of No. 37 to minimize their wrongdoing! He, Blane, and four hundred and ninety-nine others had made the detective; their faults were responsible for the cold eyes, the fighting nose and chin, the mouth that had become a lip-less line. The five hundred were responsible for the cut of his clothes, for the very build of the respectable shoes that were so much like the shoes worn by the sheriff in Deaf Smith County, Texas. It was the law of the swinging pendulum. No. 37 was a moral Ironside that the careless Cavaliers of Crime had made!
The man hunter whispered another thought that had come to his mind. "That fellow is playing to the folk who are in the house," he said.
"They're very quiet then," retorted The Wasp.
"Sleeping," grunted No. 37.
"How do you know?"
"Guessed it. But I'll wager that they are. This strumming of his tells them that everything is right. It's cute. They can wake up and be comforted by the music. It tells them that he's awake and watching. Something like making a sentry whistle."
The Wasp nodded toward the court. "Let's go down," he said.
No. 37 turned and faced the American. "I'm after the leader of this bunch and no one else," he said. "His name is Hernando de Delgado and he's a tough bird."
"I know him," murmured Mr. Blane. "I collided with him this evening and I want to see him again."
"No killing business," cautioned the man hunter. "I want to take him alive and kicking to Madrid."
"Take him where you like," said The Wasp. "If you get him I want to have the loan of him."
"The loan of him?" repeated the detective. "For how long?"
"Ten minutes."
"No manhandling or anything like that?"
"I'll treat him as if he were a litte baby," answered the Texan. "I am the kindest man that ever came out of my State."
No. 37 made a noise that suggested his doubts about the truth of the statement, but he followed the American quietly along the gallery and down the stairs to the floor below. The music helped them. The continuous playing drowned the little protesting noises of the woodwork as the two crept down the stairs.
They had reached the first floor and were standing on the circular gallery at a point directly above the door of the illuminated room when an unlucky incident announced their presence. The square toes of the respectable shoes worn by the detective unloosed a lump of plaster that dropped into the court with a noise that broke the thread of melody coming from the room.
The Wasp and the man hunter dropped to the floor and remained quiet. The silence seemed tremendous after the joyous notes of Bizet's opera. It was a silence that was more startling than any noise. It was more alarming than a siren. It had lungs of steel.
The curtain was thrust aside and the player stepped into the court. The two watchers on the gallery could see him through the carved screen of Spanish mahogany that made the lower portion of the protecting railing. He was a tall man with a weird white face that he turned toward the galleries. His alarm was plain. He sought the reason for the noise assiduously.
Robert Henry Blane and No. 37 watched him with unblinking eyes. And as they watched the silence seemed to grow and grow. It spread out from the court, a queer strange quiet that seemed to be hunting for some one to whom it could explain that intruders were in the house. The Wasp, as he waited, felt certain that the man hunter's deductions concerning the reason for the continuous music were correct. The silence that welled up from the court would have waked a multitude.
And immediate proof of its power was forthcoming. The detective and the Texan, eyes glued upon the court, received a surprise. They expected that members of the society of thugs and murderers would make their appearance to ask why their lullaby had suddenly stopped, but they did not guess the point from which the startled sleepers would come!
The Texan Wasp located the point. He nudged the man hunter and pointed to the very center of the court. The floor was mosaic work, a black-and-white pattern in marble, and the floral circle, some three feet wide, the point from which the elaborate design went out, was moving slowly upward!
No. 37 and the Texan watched the circle closely. It came up like a huge mushroom. Not hurriedly, but in a noiseless, slow manner that would have made it hardly noticeable to a person standing in the court. It was the position of the two watchers that gave them a chance to detect it immediately.
At a height of three feet the lid remained stationary. A man slipped cautiously from beneath it. He was followed by another and another. The appearance of the third made The Texan Wasp and the man hunter bristle. The fellow was Hernando de Delgado, the king of the Scarlet Jackals of Seville!
No. 37 leaned toward The Wasp and made a motion that he had no desire to wait till the hole in the court spewed up further supports. The musician, in answer to the whispered inquiries of his chief, had led the three toward the lump of plaster that had been detached by the shoe of the detective, and as the four clustered around the spot, The Wasp and the detective acted. They rose noiselessly, climbed swiftly over the wooden railing and slipped down the smooth posts to the floor of the court.
It was Delgado who first noticed the sudden descent of the man hunter and The Texan Wasp, and he acted promptly. A bullet missed the head of Robert Henry Blane by the merest fraction of an inch. The Wasp felt its hot breath on his face as he whizzed down the post. He wondered about the possibility of reaching Señor Delgado before he could repeat the performance, and as he wondered the goddess of good luck lifted a finger for the American. One of the four members of the gang, evidently believing that darkness was the better medium in which to stage a battle, fired at the lamp within the room. There was a crash of glass, a sudden burst of flame, then a darkness.
Robert Henry Blane hurled himself at the point where the chief of the Jackals had stood. His outstretched hands gripped the short jacket of a man who was moving swiftly to another point. The Wasp clinched; the two went to the floor with a crash.
The Texan Wasp, in some unexplainable way, knew that he had grabbed his man. In the early part of the night he had shouldered the chief of the gang on the runway leading to the revolving disk, and now as he clinched in the darkness he felt certain that the person he grappled with was the same. A wild joy seized him. The man he struggled with was the dreaded person whom the girl's father had jeeringly hinted would trim the ears of any American he ran against.
Robert Henry Blane felt the handle of a knife as he gripped the right wrist of the chief of the Jackals. The Wasp shifted his grip and took a quick and terrible pinch, with thumb and forefinger, of the wrist bone. There came a grunt of pain from the other; the clattering of a knife on the marble told the effect of the squeeze. The Texan felt inclined to laugh.
Around the two rose a terrific riot. Curses, yells, screams of pain, and shouts filled the court. Robert Henry Blane wondered for an instant what the man hunter was doing, but the activity of the chief of the band gave him little time for speculation. A cry that had been raised in the darkness had prompted Señor Delgado to make a supreme effort to break the clutch of The Wasp.
The leader of the Jackals made a desperate attempt to shake off the American who was on top of him. The cry was repeated. It electrified the captain of the thugs. He rolled along the floor of the court, and The Wasp, clinging to him, had a vague impression that the Spaniard was trying to reach the opening through which he had come from below when the music ceased.
The truth of this surmise was brought home to the American in a startling way. Another yell came from the companions of the thug captain, then, to his astonishment, The Texan Wasp found that he was on the edge of the opening and that the cover was closing in the same silent manner in which it had opened. The thing was coming down with a terrific suggestion of force!
Robert Henry Blane understood the meaning of the shrill yells as he fought to get back from the grip of the steel cover that was descending slowly. The cries had conveyed to the chief of the Jackals the information that his followers were retreating through the opening in the floor, and the chief had made a supreme effort to go with them and take The Wasp with him! The closing lid grasped at the shoulder of The Wasp. He felt that the thing was worked by some screw power and that it would crush a man caught between it and the edge of the floor. He wriggled clear of it. The man he was fighting was desperate. The chief of the Scarlet Jackals knew that the lid was closing, and insane with fury he made an attempt to thrust both himself and the American under the lid!
Robert Henry Blane freed his right hand and sent three crashing punches into the face of his captive. The rim of the descending lid bit at the Texan's shoulder. He fought the push of the devil he was wrestling with. The Spaniard unloosed a mad scream and thrust with all his strength. The Wasp heard the soft whirring of the greased screws. The fugitives were working hurriedly to close the lid. Again the Texan struck. His fist found the jaw of his prisoner and the fellow stopped straggling. The Wasp thrust himself away from the hole.
No. 37 struck a match. He was sitting on the bodies of two men whom he had beaten into insensibility. Without glancing at The Wasp he examined their faces and gave a little grunt of disappointment.
"I thought I had him," he growled. "I was sure I had him. Have you by any chance—"
He had leaped to the side of The Wasp and thrust the match close to the face of the leader of the Jackals. A little cry of delight came from the mouth that was but a lipless line. "You have him!" he cried. "But he's mine! He's mine!"
"After I have finished with him," said Robert Henry Blane. "That was the agreement."
"Let's move!" cried the man hunter.
"A momeut," protested The Wasp.
Hurriedly he searched the pockets of the Jackal's chief, who was slowly coming to his senses, and from one of them he drew forth the flashing jewels that had ornamented the neck and wrists of Dolores de Riano. Flung carelessly across a chair was the shawl.
"I'm ready!" he cried. "We're off!"
A carriage drew up before the house of Juan de Riano in Calle de Mendez-Nuñez. From it descended Robert Henry Blane, the handcuffed chief of the Scarlet Jackals, and the greatest sleuth in all Europe. It was nearly dawn. A soft glow appeared in the sky above St. Roque.
"What's the game?" questioned No. 37.
The Texan Wasp did not reply. He dragged the chief of the Scarlet Jackals into the vestibule of the house of the pompous merchant. With a gesture he demanded the key to the manacles. The man hunter handed it to him. The Wasp freed one of the wrists of the gang leader, then locked the loose wristlet to a bar of the grating. Quickly he thrust into the hand of Hernando de Delgado the shawl and jewels that he and his band had robbed from Dolores de Riano, then he spoke quietly as he touched the electric bell.
"When Señor de Riano descends you must give them to him with your humble apologies," he said softly. "Be careful. I and my friend are going to step around the corner of the vestibule so that our presence will not disturb you, but we will have an eye on you. If you do not make a full apology I'll be tempted to make a target of you. Now, buck up! Here he comes!"
Robert Henry Blane and No. 37 stepped around' the corner of the vestibule and watched. The fat merchant, accompanied by a servant, came to the iron grating, and to the pompous father of the girl the leader of the thugs handed the splendid loot, grunting out an apology as he did so.
The Texan Wasp grinned as he listened. "He's yours now," he remarked to No. 37. "And, by the way, our partnership is nearly at an end. See, the dawn is coming. Good-by."
THE morning post brought a letter to James Dewey Casey, The
Just-So Kid:
Dear Jimmy:
I'm leaving town hurriedly. Sorry I cannot see you. I inclose my fare from Algeciras to Seville. Bullicst trip I ever made. My regards to Raffertv and Don Ignatz.
Always yours,
Robert Henry Blane.
The Just-So Kid fingered the bills for a moment then turned angrily upon the black goat. "He's a prince, he is!" he growled. "Any time you meet him an' you don't go down on your knees an' stick your beard in the mud I'll baste the life out o' you. Get that now an' keep it in your strong box for reference."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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