The Man on Horseback/Chapter 24

wanted to surprise Bertha Wedekind with his new rank and station, and so he had sworn the Colonel, the Baron, and his other friends amongst the officers of Bertha's acquaintance to secrecy.

Monday morning, shortly after ten, Paul Hoffmann & Cie, Militäreffektenlieferanten, delivered his uniform and full accouterments, and an hour later he was on the street in all his pristine, blue-and-crimson glory and, if the truth be told, feeling not the slightest bit self-conscious. He had been excused from active duty for the rest of the week and was entirely his own master.

In front of the house he met Kurt Meissner, the irascible banker who had the apartment below. The man stared, open-eyed, open-mouthed. Tom grinned, saluted, and went on his way.

He was in splendid humor. The tip of his sword scabbard bumped behind him on the granite pavement. He liked the sound of it. He felt like on that morning before he had won the broncho busting medal at the Pendleton roundup: quite sure of himself, but without the least conceit.

He turned down the Kurfürstendamm, and his first stop was at the "Gross Berlin American Bar."

Even at that early hour the place was fairly well filled. There were a few sporting German men-about-town talking to each other in English, very proud of their London cut tweeds, and trying not to make wry faces as the American cocktails trickled down their beer-trained throats. There was furthermore a sprinkling of Americans and Englishmen; most of them boxing and roller skates instructors, and jockeys and trainers attached to the great racing establishments of such German plutocrats as Baron von Oppenheim, Prince Salm-Horstmar, and Freiherr von Matuschka-Greiffenklau, the Silesian "coal baron."

All the habitués of the bar knew Tom Graves. He had bought them many a drink since he had come to Berlin, had helped out more than one of the Anglo-American contingent with loans of money. But at first none there recognized him.

Finally it dawned upon Pat McCaffrey that the dapper young Uhlan of the Guard was his countryman from the Far West.

He leaned across the polished bar, breaking a couple of whiskey glasses in his excitement.

"For the love o' Moses, King o' the Jews!" he cried. "Go on home, Tom, an' take 'em off!"

"Take what off?"

"Them duds, man! That there uniform o' yourn!"

"I can't," answered Tom, a twinkle in his eyes. "It's against the military regulations to wear civilian dress without special permit."

"Tom! Tom, me boy!" implored the barkeeper, while the Americans and Englishmen crowded round, laughing, joking, and while the Germans, catching on to what was the matter, made audible remarks about "verfluchte Yankee Frechheit—cursed Yankee insolence."

"Tom!" went on McCaffrey, "don't ye know there's a German law ag'in the wearin' o' them duds without ye be entitled to it? Upon me sowl, they'll pinch ye sure an' send you to jug! An believe me—" he spoke from melancholy experience, "them Prooshan jails is hell!"

Tom laughed.

"Mac," he said, "keep your shirt on. I am …"

"Look here!" cut in a snarling, guttural German-American voice.

Tom turned. The speaker was Neumann, the young German bank clerk from New York, whom he had thrashed aboard the Augsburg.

"Yes?" inquired Tom gently.

"You have no right to that uniform, you damned Yankee! It's an outrage!" He turned to his compatriots. "I appeal to you, gentlemen. Es ist eine gemeine Schande!" Once more he addressed Tom, shouting at the top of his lungs. "You'll go to jail for that, you impostor! You have no right to wear the King's Coat!"

"Oh, haven't I?" rejoined Tom, smiling. "Well, well, well!"

He took Neumann's ear between the fingers of his left hand, pinching cruelly, while with his right he slipped a paper from the top buttons of his tunic.

"Look at that, my lad!" he went on, still pinching, and, unfolding the paper, he showed it to be an army commission signed by the Emperor and countersigned by General von Bissingen, PlatzCommandant of the Berlin garrison.

"I—I beg your pardon, Mr. Graves!" stuttered Neumann.

"Call me Herr Leutnant!" thundered the Westerner, giving the clerk's ear a final, twisting pinch, and the other complied and slunk out of the room.

By this time McCaffrey was arranging bottles and glasses on the bar.

"This one's on the house," he cried. "What's your tipple, Tom, me boy?"

But Tom shook his head.

"Got to keep as sober as a judge this morning, Mac! Thanks just the same!"

"What's the matter? Callin' on yer best girl?"

"You said it!" came Tom's reply, and he walked out to the street.

He hailed a taxicab, drove up to Colonel Wedekind's apartment, and gave his card to the Pomeranian Bursche.

"Ach du lieber Herr Jesus!" was all that honest peasant could utter, but the sight of the respected uniform galvanized him into action and he took Tom's card.

A moment later, he bowed over the hand of Bertha.

She, too, was speechless.

But Tom had learned his experience in the "Gross Berlin American Bar." Instead of speaking he put his army commission on the table and asked the young girl to read.

She read, and looked up.

"Why, Tom dear!"

The latter grinned.

"See?" he said, triumphantly, "I got me my little monkey-jacket. And here's my roasting spit!" drawing his saber and making passes at an imaginary enemy.

The girl laughed delightedly.

"Tom! Tom!" she cried. "I am so proud of you. And I'm proud of Germany for having chosen you …"

"Bully! Thanks for the compliments. Sounds like the chairman of the Democratic Party introducing me to a gathering of hicks. And now, just to finish up in style, aren't you proud of Spokane, of America, for having given birth to as dashing a warrior as me? Say!" he went on, very seriously, "aren't you proud of America—just the least little bit?"

"You're a German now, too, Tom. As I am!"

"Get off, kid! You're not German, and neither am I! Not on your life! We're both Americans! Three cheers!" he shouted, "three cheers for the American Eagle! May he scream for all time to come …"

"Don't let the Eagle scream so loud," came a voice from the door.

The Colonel's mother had come into the room. She studied Tom with her snapping old eyes, and her voice was threaded with delicate malice.

"So you did not take my advice?"

"What advice?" asked Bertha.

"Nothing for frivolous young ears," replied her grandmother, and then to Tom, in an undertone: "Well, since you refused to leave Germany when I told you, since you insisted on staying here, you did the right thing. It is better to hunt with the hounds than to run with the hares."

"What—what d'you mean?" stammered Tom.

"That!" replied Mrs. Wedekind, touching his epaulettes, "and that!" pointing at his sword. "In Germany you must be a soldier—you must belong to the ruling caste—the hounds who hunt! Only—don't forget that the American Eagle is no more in your life. From now on it is the German Eagle, young man! You are a German!"

"I am not!" stoutly declared Tom, but he discovered before the month was out that Mrs. Wedekind had spoken the truth.