The Man on Horseback/Chapter 25

the end of the week Lord Vyvyan returned to Berlin and called on Tom. He was not a bit surprised to see the latter in a German uniform—which rather disappointed the horse wrangler.

"Papers spoke of it," the Englishman said casually, dropping into a chair. "The Daily Mirror brought your picture, flanked by that of the latest Pimlico wife beater and the most recent Celtic poet. Must have snapped you when you weren't looking—and labeled you: Only American cowboy who goes to sleep to the lullaby of Hoch der Kaiser!"

"I don't," laughed Tom.

"Don't you?" Vyvyan drawled the words. He was a little stiff, a little reserved, in spite of his jocularity, and Tom was conscious of a disagreeable feeling that was almost sharp mental pain. Too, there was a certain mockery in the way in which the Englishman studied his uniform through the concave lense of his monocle.

"Well, there you are, old cock. All in purple and fine linen like a regular bally hero," went on Vyvyan as stiffly as before. "How's your litigation coming on?"

Tom welcomed the turn in the conversation. So he explained what had happened, how he had used five thousand dollars to comply with Alec Wynn's cabled demand, and drew the remaining sum from his pocketbook.

Vyvyan waved the money aside.

"You'll need all the dough you can lay your hands on," he said. "Life in the Uhlans will cost you a pretty bloomin' penny."

"Yes. That's what Baron von Götz-Wrede says."

"Well, keep the money. I don't need it."

Tom looked up. Less and less he liked the tone and manner of the Englishman, but he said to himself that he must be mistaken. There was no reason in the world why his friend should bear him any ill will.

So he replied very heartily:

"Thanks. I'd be very glad to keep the money for a short time. It'll help me a whole lot."

"Keep it just as long as you care to."

The Englishman rose.

"Wait a moment," said the Westerner; "there's just one little condition."

"Oh?" came the Britannic exclamation.

"'Oh,' is correct! I expect to win that suit, and if I do I am going to give you a block of stock in the mine."

"Heavens, no!"

"It's only fair, Vyvyan."

"No, no, no! I have very special reasons why I do not want an interest in the Yankee Doodle." He looked at Tom. Quite suddenly his reserve melted. He smiled; and, under his breath, he added: "No! It wouldn't be playin' the game."

"I won't take no for an answer," said Tom, and he was so stubbornly insistent that finally Vyvyan, though still protesting, signified his acceptance.

They dined together at the "Auster-Meyer" restaurant and it was over coffee and Grand Marnier that the Englishman thawed completely and, with British outspokenness, gave his friend his reasons why at first he had been so stiff and reserved.

"It's that uniform of yours," he said. "I don't like it on an American."

"Shucks! It's only a lark!"

"A lark? Nothing is a lark in Germany. Everything here is done for a reason, a cause, an ulterior, well-thought-out end!" Vyvyan was very serious. "Remember, Tom, a few weeks ago when I said I wanted to take you into my confidence?"

"Yes. Sure I remember." Impulsively he took the other's hand. "Say, old man, if I can help you … Any time …"

Vyvyan was silent. It was evident that he was going through a mental struggle. Finally he shook his head, and, as in Tom's apartment, he said half to himself: "No! It wouldn't be playin' the game. It's what a German would do. I can't. I fancy I'm a fool."

"Don't be so mysterious," said Tom.

The Englishman refilled his liqueur glass.

"Tom," he went on musingly, "that time, a few weeks ago, when I wanted to take you into my confidence there was that old barrier—built by King George and his silly ass ministry over a hundred years ago, during the American Revolution. Now there's another barrier between you and me."

"What?" Tom was utterly surprised.

"Yes. Another barrier. The uniform you are wearing."

"That bit of blue-and-red cloth won't make any difference to you and me. How the devil can it?"

Vyvyan smiled.

"We'll see. But—will you promise me one thing, Tom?"

"You bet—if it helps you!"

"It's just this. Don't ever sell the Yankee Doodle Glory to a German!"

"Well—I haven't won my case yet."

"But—s'pose you do?"

"All right, Vyvyan. I promise." He leaned across the table. "Say it's you who sent me that anonymous telephone message the night of my arrival in Berlin, eh?"

"Maybe."

Vyvyan called the waiter, paid, and he and Tom took a taxicab and drove to the Wintergarten to see the Guerrero bend her graceful body to the rhythm of Spanish music, to hear Max Bender sing slangy Berlin obscenities that sent the audience into roars of laughter, and to applaud the antics of Buck Melrose, the eccentric American tumbler.

The performance over, they decided to have a night cap at the Tauben Strasse Casino, but on the street they came face to face with Colonel Heinrich Wedekind.

Very stiffly he returned the Westerner's salute, but when the latter was about to walk on by the side of his friend, he stopped him.

"Lieutenant Graves!"

Tom turned, surprised.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"A few words with you, Lieutenant!"

There was not a trace of the usual suavity and friendliness in the Colonel's voice. The words popped out, clipped, short, metallic, snarling, arrogant.

"But, say—Colonel!" stammered Tom.

"Was fällt Ihnen denn ein?" came the sharp reply. "That isn't the way to talk to your superior officer. Say: ‘Zu Befehl, Herr Oberst!’"

"Zu Befehl, Herr Oberst!" said Tom, stiffly, a great rage in his throat.

"That's better," sneered Colonel Wedekind, "and now you'll go home. To your quarters, sir. At once. I order you!"

Tom was hurt. He was mad clear through. He longed to strike the other with his clenched fist. But though his secret anger partially submerged his intelligence it did not affect his natural caution. Too, he heard Vyvyan's soft whisper: "Look out, old chap!" and so he only allowed himself a slight irony as he replied:

"All right. I get you. So long." And he saluted, clicked his heels, took Lord Vyvyan's arm, and turned to go.

Again the Colonel's harsh bellow stopped him.

"You will go home alone; without—ah—His Lordship. You will not leave your room. I shall see you in the morning. Guten Abend, Herr Leutnant," he snarled and walked away.

"Now—what the hell …?" commenced Tom, to be cut short by the Englishman's sober:

"Do what you are told. The man's your superior officer. Do what you are told," he repeated, very tensely. "Only—for God's sake!—remember your promise. Do not sell the Yankee Doodle Glory to the Germans!" And he hailed a passing taxicab and was off in his turn, while Tom returned to his flat, thinking deeply.

The next morning, shortly after ten, Krauss announced Colonel Wedekind.

The latter was a little more friendly, a little less sharp than he had been the night before, and Tom was inclined to ascribe the whole scene to a drop too much to drink when the German suddenly said:

"Lieutenant Graves. Let's get to business. I look with great disfavor on your friendship with Lord Vyvyan. That is why I ordered you to your quarters. In the future you will cease associating with the Englishman."

Tom shook his head.

"Nothing doing," he replied. "Vyvyan is my pal."

Again the Colonel flared up.

"What's the matter with you?" he rasped out. "What do you mean by addressing me in that manner?"

"What manner?"

"That American slang of yours. Speak German to me, understand?"

"Say," drawled Tom, "what's wrong with American slang? Isn't it good enough for you?"

"Do not argue, sir, do not argue! How dare you contradict me? Well—you must give up Lord Vyvyan." He rose and buckled on his sword.

Never before, since he had grown up, had Tom Graves come face to face, as it were, with the word Must. It was not contained in the dictionary of his life. He was willing to be proved wrong, to be shown, to be persuaded, to do the right thing as quickly as he saw that it was right.

But … "Must"?

He said so.

"Don't you give me any of that Must dope," he said. "There's no Must in my makeup. Might as well talk Siwash to me!"

Colonel Wedekind had turned purple with rage. His eyes blazed, his mustache bristled like that of an angry tomcat, and the veins on his temples stood out like thick, crimson ropes.

"Are you going to obey, sir?" he asked. "Yes—or no?"

"No!" came the horse wrangler's flat dictum.

"Very well, Lieutenant. You are going to pay for this extraordinary, unheard-of piece of insubordination," and he was out of the room, clanking his saber.

Krauss had come in shortly before the last scene. He was very pale, for, in spite of everything, in spite of his calling, he had grown genuinely fond of Tom.

Tom turned to him.

"Say, Krauss," he asked, "what do you think that old coyote is going to do?"

"I am afraid"—Krauss's voice held the suspicion of a quiver—"I am afraid he is going to court-martial you, sir."

"Well," laughed Tom, "he's got another think coming. Me for the protecting folds of the Stars and Stripes!" and he ran out of the room, down the stairs into the street, and jumped into a taxicab.

"To the American Consulate!" he ordered. "In the Friedrich Strasse!"

He knew John Poole, the Vice-Consul, a Westerner like himself, who had watched his progress through the military society of the German capital with a great deal of glee, and was proud of the fact that Tom had obtained a commission in the Uhlans.

Thus, when Tom called on him that morning, he waved him into an easy chair and pushed towards him the cigar box marked "Visitors."

"Have a smoke, Tom," he said hospitably.

Tom lit a cigar, blew out the smoke in a thick, straight line, and touched Poole on the shoulder.

"Poole," he said, "you old Oregonian web-foot, I am in a hell of a mess and I got to have help."

Help to Poole meant money, and he was careful by nature.

"I am sorry, Tom," he said, a little less cordially, "I'm bust myself."

"I'm not asking you for money. I want protection."

"Protection—you? And from whom?"

"I got into a row with my Colonel. Krauss, that's my valet, says I'm going to be court-martialed sure pop. So here I am. This is the American consulate. Go ahead and do what the tax-payers back home chip in their little jitneys for."

Poole cleared his throat.

"Tom," he said, "the American Consulate cannot protect you."

"Eh?" queried Tom incredulously, "what're you giving us? Didn't you hear me say that I am in a pickle up to my fetlocks?"

"Yes. I heard you all right. But—Tom—you are not an American."

"What?"

"You are a German! Ein Deutscher!"

"Get off your perch! I didn't take out any citizenship papers."

"You didn't have to. You got your commission in the army. Swore fealty to the Emperor, didn't you?"

"Sure. Well?"

"That little ceremony changed you automatically into a German subject. Tom," he added, "I am sorry."

"So am I, Poole. Damned sorry, to put it mildly!"

And he left the Consulate a sadder and wiser man.