The Glyphs/Chapter 2

Sometimes I wonder if we should have ever made that trip had not the charcutier kicked J. Dalrymple Wardrop’s dog. Also had not Beni Hassan Azdul been there to observe the aforementioned kick. Also had I not been there to remonstrate with the pork butcher and, when called a foul name, administer a kick to him. Hence enter into this bald, plain chronicle, the persons of J. Dalrymple Wardrop, afterward lovingly known as Wardy; Beni Hassan Azdul, familiar as Benny, and Monty, the dog. And let it be further explained that the dog’s cognomen was thus bestowed because his owner had won him through a private game of piquet at Monte Carlo. I never knew how he won Beni Hassan Azdul. Perhaps it was out in Bedouin districts of the Sahara desert. Anyhow, he had him.

I felt better after booting the charcutier; because the kick he had handed the dog was gratuitous, and I am one of those persons who aren’t quite positive but that dogs have souls of sorts. I was somewhat surprised by the hurried appearance of Beni Hassan Azdul, who hastened up and, in the gloom, proffered me a rather wicked-looking knife with the whispered suggestion that I cut the charcutier’s throat and thus make a complete job of it. A crowd threatened to gather, attracted by the lamentations of the charcutier. I have in my time played a deal of football not without some local fame. I know how to kick! But I don’t quite know how to face a crowd of infuriated toy venders, shoe-lace merchants, dealers in post cards and the latest toy novelties. I thrust the nearest one away and beat a strategic retreat in the direction of my favorite café.

Considerably less heated, in fact, quite calm and placid, I was sitting there considering Doctor Morgano, glyphs, ancient civilizations and the marvelous coiffure of a young lady who smoked a cigar at an adjoining table, when I was disturbed by a deep voice that spoke behind me in English—and to hear one’s own tongue in a foreign land is always a surprise—“Pardon me. I don’t know your name; but it doesn’t in the least matter. Thank you for kicking the man who kicked my dog. If there is any other person you wish kicked, it is my pleasure to reciprocate and I am at your disposal!”

He was an enormous man, six feet six in his stockinged feet and built in perfect proportion. There was no mistaking his class or nationality—quite evidently an Englishman of the upper classes, as they call them in a country where class does represent a distinction, after all. He wore a monocle which seemed so firmly fixed in his face that I fancied it would stick there were he awake or asleep, drunk or sober, and it is creditable to my first observation that later familiarity confirmed the estimate. He wore a singularly individual garb as if to defy comment, fashions, and, indeed, the entire world of conventionalities. A “deerstalker” hat dented down the center and cocked at a defiant, belligerent angle, surmounted his finely shaped head. His golfing suit was startlingly squared and checkered, but expensive and well-woven tweed that must have come from the real old spinners’ looms. His shoes were of the type that cost more money than I could ever afford, and that I’m not certain I should order if I were a millionaire, being heavy soled, with huge, punched uppers. His stockings were of rare old homespun, but with a defiant border rolled downward in a broad expanse of reds, yellows, purples, greens, and blues. His hands, that I was later to learn were so practical, strong, and capable, were concealed beneath a heavy pair of expensive dog-hide gloves, and they held a cane of twisted elephant hide that immediately arrested my scrutiny. In fact, I looked at the walking stick with a sharp sense of recognizing something familiar before my eyes lifted to his monocle; to his strong face; to the graying beard that, well trimmed, concealed a combative, stubborn, resolute chin.

“Why the thanks?” said I, disturbed. “It’s nothing. I always kick a man who kicks a dog—unwarranted. I presume you refer to”

And then I saw, standing behind him, the Arabic person who in my street encounter had tendered a knife; but now the high, thin, sensitive nose was twitching in response to its nostrils, and as perfect a set of teeth as I have ever seen were exposed by a faint smile.

“Benny tells me that you are the one who resented an insult to Monty. Monty is my dog,” he explained. “Incidentally, Benny is my man. They’re both friends of mine—Monty and Ben. I back, uphold, defend—sometimes support—my friends!” There was a dry flavor of humor, like the intangible bouquet of old wines, in his last explanation that impelled me to stand up and ask him for the privilege of his company. I’m glad, now, that I did.

“Let us celebrate,” said I, “such a remarkable occurrence. It’s not every day that a man has the opportunity to defend a defenseless beast. There should be a police court, learned doctors of the law, eloquent advocates, renowned compilers of judicial decisions, to protect the rights of dogs. Please join me.”

I had expected that his Arabic follower would at least hover near, but with a gentle admonitory wave of his hand my new friend dismissed not only him, but the dog. The latter went reluctantly. I think there was a piece of string tied round his neck, which was occasionally jerked by his conductor.

Amused, I consented. And I was speedily to learn that this was no amateur in ordering, but a real connoisseur who not only knew what he wanted but how to get it. Lots of us know what we want, but getting it is another matter. J. D. W. had both gifts. I sat eying that twist of elephant hide. My host sat eying me.

“You are interested in that?” he suddenly asked, holding it up for my better inspection.

“Somewhat,” I replied. “It’s about the best one I’ve ever seen. I’ve tried to make them, very unsuccessfully, I fear.”

“You have been in Africa?”

“Yes—across it twice.”

He betrayed more interest than hitherto, which made me believe that up to that time he had been merely paying what he considered to be Monty’s indebtedness, but was now curious concerning myself. He fixed me with that monocle of his and then suddenly leaned back and chuckled.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Who’d have thought it! You’re the man I saw at Niobrara—the man with the magnificent red whiskers that flowed down around his chest. Same man! Man with the red whiskers! Can’t be mistaken. And—wait a moment—your name is—is—Hallewell!”

It was my turn to be astonished. I was certain that I had never seen him before. One couldn’t possibly forget such a man as he. He must have surmised from my look of astonishment that I was cudgeling my memory, and added: “No, I didn’t meet you. Saw you through a window. Friend of mine said, ‘That’s Hallewell. Feller who goes where others don’t. Shoots with his eyes shut and scores a bull. I’ve an idea he’s a bad egg.’”

“Thanks,” said I dryly, and my host laughed as if amused.

“Perhaps you will not consider it impertinent, inasmuch as you know my name, that I am somewhat curious to know yours?”

“Not at all! Not at all!” And he thereupon took a card from his pocket and handed it to me. The name was very familiar. I knew much of him; knew that he had once been a Ceylon tea planter, afterward a big-game hunter, something of an explorer, much of an adventurer, and that men spoke well of him. Also that he was a man of considerable wealth, able to gratify all his whims. It is odd to me, in recalling that meeting, that I did not bestow a moment’s thought on Doctor Morgano until after more than an hour’s friendly conversation, when my new friend asked most politely, if I intended returning to Africa or was bound for the north pole.

“No,” replied I, “neither has entered my mind. In fact, I am somewhat unsettled because—well, because a friend of mine wished me to accompany him into the jungles of Guatemala. He wishes to look at ruins.”

“Guatemala? Humph! That’s where those Aztec Johnnies lived. Funny old temples and By Jove! I’d like to come along with you! I’m rather fed up with Paris. Been wondering what to do. Eh?”

This was so unexpected that I was slightly embarrassed as to how to reply. I wasn’t exactly certain that, everything else being arranged, the doctor would care to have him accompany us. Moreover, I don’t believe that up to that minute I had thoroughly resolved to go myself. I wasn’t certain that Doctor Morgano was anything other than a fairly harmless old lunatic who, while sincere, was fooling himself. Suddenly the thought entered my mind that it might be best for Wardrop to talk with the archæologist and draw his own conclusions. First, there would be some sport in seeing these two together, and, second, if anything came of it, I couldn’t be held to blame.

“The truth is,” I said, “that it is rather beyond my authority to arrange this expedition. It originated in the mind of Doctor Paolo Morgano. If he were to decide that”

“All right! Let’s go see him,” said Wardrop, immediately snapping his fingers for the waiter and demanding his bill. I had no time to protest before, the indebtedness paid, my host was on his feet towering so high above other men that all eyes were on him. Evidently he was a man of quick decision and action. I grinned to myself with anticipatory enjoyment of the shock he should sustain when ushered into that queer domicile of the doctor’s; but my grin was wasted. The big man trudged placidly after me up the six flights of dark, dirty stone stairs, as if expecting to find a savant in such quarters, and when the doctor admitted us, did not show the slightest sign of surprise, curiosity, or disgust. Indeed, he appeared rather to enjoy sitting on a mummy case, quite as if he had sat on many such before I introduced them.

“Mr. Wardrop,” I said, “is known to me by reputation. He wishes to go with us to Guatemala.”

“Is he going to pay our expenses?” the doctor asked before I could get any further, and James Dalrymple Wardrop’s monocle nearly fell from his eye, and he looked at the door, then at us, wondering if he had fallen into some new “holdup” game.

“I hadn’t mentioned that trifling matter to him,” I replied.

“But you told him about the glyphs?”

“Not a word! He likes to hunt, explore, visit jungles, and so forth.”

“Then he must be insano!” said the doctor, eying the placid visitor much as if he were a new chunk of stone. “He wishes to go to—merely for—impossible!”

“Quite true, I assure you,” said the big man, seemingly amused. “But—perhaps I’m not asking too much if you will explain something of the nature of this—er—this expedition, doctor.”

“Got any money?” asked the doctor in about the same tone that he might have used if asking for a match.

“Some,” said Wardrop. “Depends on what for.”

“Ah, my friend, you are the man we have been seeking. By the shades of Pharaoh, it is fate! We have knowledge—you have money. What a happy combination. You shall come. You shall have the privilege of sharing in the greatest scientific discovery of your generation. You shall become renowned as”

I saw some signs of either alarm, amusement, or withdrawal on our visitor’s face and decided that it was time to interrupt.

“Doctor, perhaps you had best let me explain. Mr. Wardrop, Doctor Morgano, of whom you have doubtless heard as a distinguished archæologist, believes he has discovered the key to the hieroglyphics sculptured upon the ruins in Guatemala and Yucatan, which, as you also doubtless know, have been unsolvable mysteries heretofore. He—pardon, Doctor Morgano, let me finish, please! As I was about to say, Mr. Wardrop, the doctor wishes to go there to conduct his investigations. He confided in me because he thinks he might need the services of some one a trifle more accustomed to exploration, travel, jungles, snakes, Indians, et cetera, than he is. His inducement to me was that we might find treasure, and that my recompense should be to share in that. All he asks is for means to study those ruins, and interpret lost history. I have not the money to equip the expedition unassisted. If you are interested, and care to take such extraordinary risks of ever being reimbursed for your share of the outlay, I would cheerfully share with you on any terms we might agree upon. That is the plain statement of the situation.”

Wardrop shifted his eyes from mine to the doctor, who was now prancing up and down and cracking his finger joints with impatience. For a time he studied the doctor, then I think smiled behind his beard, and addressed himself to me.

“Do you really think there is any hope of discovering buried treasure?” he demanded ironically.

“Not one chance in a million!” I asserted, whereupon the doctor went into a sudden paroxysm of rage, shook his fists in the air, called upon the gods to witness that in me they were beholding the greatest of fools, and then roared, in Italian, with his face not more than eighteen inches from mine and exhaling passion and garlic strangely intermixed: “Is that the way to induce a man to advance capital for our search? Pah! Poof! You do tell the signor that there is nothing in it! That you think there is no treasure! That I, Paolo Morgano, known everywhere as a savant, and accepted, with honors, by a score of learned societies, do what you call in your barbaric English ‘speak through my hat!’”

He might have said more but that he was interrupted by a stentorian roar of laughter. J. Dalrymple Wardrop was rocking to and fro on his mummy case overcome by enjoyment. It was palpable that he thoroughly understood Italian, a fact which I afterward knew.

The doctor retired sulkily to his chair and threw himself into it with outsprawled feet in an attitude of hopeless dejection and resignation.

“Go on. Continue. Spoil everything,” he said to me with a glare.

“Hallewell, do you think he’s really got what he thinks he has—the key to the hieroglyphics?” Wardrop asked me as if the doctor were not even present.

“Oh, no doubt of that,” I declared. “He’s peculiar but—well, he knows his job. He’s a whale in archæology—no small fry.”

“I thank you for that,” interjected the doctor acridly. “I am at least a leviathan and not a shrimp!”

“And you think there is a chance for some sport?” continued Wardrop, paying not the slightest heed to the irate doctor.

“Of sorts. Maybe not much. I don’t know. I’ve never been there and that’s the only reason why I’m interested,” I admitted, telling nothing but plain truth. He grinned sympathetically and his eyes sparkled like those of an adventurous boy.

“How much would the whole trip cost?” he asked with a grain of evident caution.

“Anywhere from ten to a hundred thousand francs,” I said, giving it a nice comfortable margin. “I can stand twenty thousand myself. If we find anything in the way of treasure, which, as I said, is doubtful, we might cut it into three portions, although the doctor says he doesn’t seek money.”

He got to his feet and stretched his arms as if to adjust himself into his coat.

“All right,” he said. “I’m in on it. I can start to-morrow morning if it suits your plans. Where do we outfit? On this side, or at some port across the Caribbean? You’ll have to look after that part of it because that sort of thing annoys me.”

I was somewhat knocked off my pins by this unexpected, off-handed acceptance of so indefinite an adventure. I was yet to learn that this man made all decisions as quickly and unhesitatingly. But now he was assailed by the doctor. I can call it nothing less than an assault, for the archæologist leaped to his feet, seized the visitor’s hand, twisted it, wrung it, and then cast it aside as if it were wet linen being flung on the grass to dry.

“Ah, comrade!” he shouted. “Partner in the mystery of the ages! We shall share the joy of unfolding history like the leaves of a sealed book. Mon Dieu! Think! Think what it means to know what they did, those lost nations! Where they went; who ruled them; their habits; their hopes; their strange worships! You are sympatico. This hard-headed Henri is cold. A man who sees nothing that he can not touch, handle, barter, or throw aside. But—ah, forgeeve me, friend!” he cried, suddenly rushing toward me. “It is the heart of gold but with the head that sees no visions! The practical man. At what hour do we start to-morrow?”

I think he was vastly distressed when I explained that there were many things to be thought of and arranged; many purchases to be made; much knowledge to be acquired before we could start. Also that steamships didn’t run daily to the Isthmian coasts and ports. I was glad of an excuse to get away from him, and accompanied Wardrop down the stairs and to a quiet retreat where I could tell him all that I knew of the quest, of Doctor Morgano’s discovery.

The milk cans were rattling over the cobblestones of old Paris when we parted company in the morning.