Part 18

“Why, there you are, colonel! There aint a horse on this place. It was so hot yesterday that we turned them all out. They’re two miles away, in long meadow. You can’t get a horse on this post.”

Baffled, the child dropped the saddle. She leaned against the door-post, her swimming eyes looking across the baking earth. “It’ll kill Baby, Henry,” she whispered, with trembling lips.

No one was about. Above the Ralston stable some little boys had made a fire in the shade. Jerry clinched her hands in agony above her heart. Then she picked up her saddle, and went resolutely along the path.

“Where are you going, colonel, dear?” called Henry.

She did not answer.

“Oh--Baby! Baby!” she was sobbing as she ran; “I can’t let them kill you! I’ve _got_ to disobey orders!”

The carriage, with the three men in it, was met by the news. A mile from the post a little boy shouted that the Ralston stable, with the wonderful mare inside, was burned to the ground. The old general, bouncing out uncomfortably, kept up a running fire of sympathetic ejaculation. The major, urging on the big grays, freely used his strongest language. But his brother did not speak.

Sweating, dust-covered, panting, the horses tore past Officers’ Row, and stopped at the ruins of what had been the stable. A few fallen beams still smoked sullenly, the sickening odor of wet wood filled the air. A group of men and boys in their shirt-sleeves stood near. At the sound of the wheels, Baron, his face streaked with soot and perspiration, came toward them. “I was off duty, sir!” he said, hoarsely. “I was getting my dinner. We done all we could! We had the hose here in ten minutes, but the fire was too big.”

His master nodded. After a moment he asked: “She was loose?”

“Yes, sir. She must have suffocated. She didn’t struggle----”

“No? Well, I’m glad--of that.” Her owner walked about the ruins. The other men were silent. Finally the major said: “I can’t tell you, old man, how sorry I am!”

“Well, no help for it, Jim. I know you are! Go clean up, Baron, then come talk to me. Shall we go up to the house?”

On the way, he said, sombrely: “I wouldn’t have taken any money for that mare!”

Just at this moment the mare came into the yard, with the weary little colonel astride her. The Lady was tired, her satin flanks were flecked with white, but she knew her master, and whinnied as she came up to him. At the sound, he turned as if shot, and a moment later a shout from both men cut short the colonel’s stammered remarks. Her father lifted her down.

“It takes the colonel, every time!” said he. “What lucky star made you--this particular afternoon!--well, she’s saved your horse for you, Bob.”

“We’ll have to promote you,” said the general, to whom the tired child was clinging.

Her uncle, turning for the first time from the horse, spoke, solemnly: “You saved her, didn’t you? I won’t forget this! You’ll have the finest Spanish saddle that can be made, for this!”

“You can go right on breaking rules at this rate!” said her father, his arm about her. “And now run up and get dressed. You can tell us about it later.”

“I’ll go up, too,” said the general.

“Go right ahead, sir. We’ll go to the stable for a few minutes and make fresh arrangements for The Lady.”

* * * * *

When they at last went out to the long-delayed dinner, the high back chair at the foot of the table found no occupant.

“Late, as usual,” said the major. “Lena,” he added, “go and tell the colonel that dinner is ready.”

“Oh, if you please, major, she’s gone to bed. She come upstairs more than an hour ago. She took her bath, sir, and went right to bed. I ast her did she feel sick, and she says no, but that them was your orders. She wouldn’t let Nora bring her up no tea.” Lena looked reproachful.

“And she cried awfully,” said Rose.

“She never let a tear out of her until I shut the door, Miss Rose,” said Lena, firmly; “and she ast me to put out a dress with a plain sleeve for to-morrow. She shut the windows down so’s she shouldn’t hear the band, but she never cried none.”

The aid winced. The general cleared his throat.

“Well, she’s your child, Fitzgerald. But I think I’ll issue a few orders in this matter myself.”

“You’re my superior officer, sir,” said the major, eagerly.

NOTES

Some weeks after the story, “Ten Thousand Years in Ice,” on page 127, was printed in the _Argonaut_, there arrived at the editorial rooms one morning quite a large bundle of letters bearing Hungarian postage-stamps. On opening them, we found them to be in various languages. One of them was in very queer English; this we reproduce verbatim:

[_Original._]

Aradi Szechenyi-Gozmalomarader Szechenyi-Dampfmuhl-Reszveny-Tarsasag Actien-Gesellschaft.

Arad (Hungary), feb. 25.

To the Editor of the Argonaut, San Francisko: Before a short time I red an article from Dr. Milne translating in the _Pester Lloyd_ newspaper which was very interesting.

The editor of this newspaper told me that this essay was formerly edited by you, an I am so free to ask you:

Is it very what Dr. Millene wrote from the “Men which is frozen 10,000 years ago in the ice,” and beg to accept my salutations. I am thankful.

Yours very truly, J. Kleinsson.

Arad (Hungary), Minorite palace, II etage, door 17.

The next letter contained an inclosure, and was couched as follows:

[_Original._]

Reviewer, office of the “Argonaut,” San Francisco--_Dear Sir_: I take the liberty to beg you, will you be so kind to deliver the enclosed letter to the autor of the article: “Ten thousand years in the ice” (published in your newpaper of the 14 january) Sir Robert Dunkan Milne.

I thank you, sir, for your kindness and I shall be happy to render you a reciprocal service.

Yours, Sigmonde Barany.

Zombor (Hungary) the 23 february.

[_Inclosure._]

Zombor (Hungary), 23 february.

Sir Robert Dunkan Milne, Esqr., San Francisco--_Dear Sir_: I read your article: “Ten thousand years in the ice” in the _Argonaut_ of the 14 january, and while it has made the greatest sensation in our country I take the liberty to beg you, will you be so kind, to answer me, what is the truth of this matter?

I shall be happy, sir, when you will honor me with an answer, and thanking for your kindness, I’m your very obliged

Sigmonde Barany.

The next letter showed that his Austro-Hungarian majesty’s officers have literary taste. It read thus:

[_Original._]

Kronstadt (Transylvania, Austria), 20th February.

To the Argonaut, belletrist. newspaper, San Francisco, California: I should feel very much obliged to you, if you were kind enough to give me some accounts about the _truth and fact_ of the most interesting tale, which contained the last number of your excellent paper (dated from the 14th of January)--“_ten thousand years in ice_,” by Sir Robert Dunkan Milne. Looking forward to your kind answer,

I am yours thankfully,

A. Kyd, lieutenant in the 2d regmt of the Hussars.

The next letter is signed by one of a family whose name is famous in Austria:

[_Original._]

To the Editor of the “Argonaute,” periodical, San Francisco, California, U. S. (Esrakamerika)--_Sir_: I had the pleasure to read the article: “Ten thousand years in the ice,” by Sir Robert Duncan Milne (which appeared in the _Argonaut_ of January 14th), in the _Pester Lloyd_, and in answer to a question regarding this article, the editor of the _Pester Lloyd_ advised me to write to you, sir, as you would be surely able to answer the following question:

Is the article: “Ten thousand years in the ice,” based on mere fiction, or is he partially true? I am rather inclined to think that there is some truth in the article, because Sir Robert Duncan Milne in speaking of himself and his friend calls him by his real name.

You would very much oblige me, by being so good as to answer my question, or in case that you should neither be able to do this, by forwarding my letter to Sir Robert Duncan Milne.

Apologizing for the trouble I may give you by this request, I am sir,

Yours very obediently,

Richard Lichtenstein.

February 24th. 26, Andrassy street, Budapest (Hungary).

The next letter was in German. It bore a lithographed heading showing that the writer dated it from a large foundry. The letter ran:

[_Translation._]

Maschinenfabrik, Eisen-und Metallgiesseri.

Fuenfkirchen, Hungary, 23 Feb.

To the Esteemed Editorial Department of the Journal of Polite Literature, “Argonaut,” at San Francisco: In your valued paper, and namely in the number of the fourteenth of last month, you published an article by Sir Robert Duncan Milne, “Ten thousand years in ice.”

If the honored editorial department does not consider it troublesome, I would allow myself a question, the kind answer to which I beg, what portion is true in this most interesting story?

Hoping you will appreciate the respect in which I sign myself, Your most humble, P. Haberenyi.

Another German letter was as follows:

[_Translation._]

Budapesth, 23 Feb.

Esteemed Editorial Department of the “Argonaut,” Journal of Polite Literature, San Francisco, Cal.: In the _Pester Lloyd_ of this city was published a story “Ten thousand years in ice.” Since I have not the pleasure of knowing the author of the English original, “Sir Robert Duncan Milne,” he who alone could give a definite answer as to what is true in this story; and since the original of this most interesting story has been published in the journal _Argonaut_, therefore, I hope that the honored Editorial Department will certainly be willing to send to Sir Milne the above-mentioned inquiry, so that, if possible, something more about the particulars of it may be learned.

Rendering you herewith my best thanks for your trouble, I sign Most humbly, M. Fisher.

Address: Dolf Harsanyi, Budapest.

The next letter, also in German, came from a lawyer. It read thus:

[_Translation._]

Ugyved Dr. Rusznyak Samu, Advocat, Budapest, V, Nagy Korona-Utcza, 5. 22nd of February.

An die lobliche Redaction des Argonaut:

Esteemed Editorial Department--In the _Pester Lloyd_, a paper appearing in Budapest, was reproduced under the title “Ten Thousand Years in Ice,” a highly interesting story, which was published in your very valued paper _in the number of the 14th of January_.

The author of the English original published in the _Argonaut_ is _Sir Robert Duncan Milne_.

The above-mentioned story stirred up a great and general interest here, so that very many readers turned to the editorial department of the _Pester Lloyd_ with the question, how much of the story was true? Said editorial department not being able to answer the question, referred the inquiries to the esteemed editorial department of the _Argonaut_.

I permit myself, therefore, to make to your esteemed editorial department the humble request, and indeed in my own, as well as in the name of several friends, to be so kind as to state what was true in the above-mentioned story?

At the same time I request that you may make known to me the subscription price of your valued paper.

Since I can not furnish myself with postage stamps of the United States in Budapest, I request that you send me your kind answer without prepaying same.

Recommending my request to your favor, I sign

Most respectfully, Dr. Samuel Rusznyak.

After a lapse of a few days we received another batch of letters, two of which explained the epistolary avalanche. One of them was from the editor of the _Pester Lloyd_, stating that he had printed a translation of the story in his journal and had been overwhelmed with inquiries as to whether it was fact or fiction. Another letter was from Mme. Fanny Steinitz, a literary lady living in Buda-Pesth, who confessed that she was the cause of the outburst, as she had translated the story. In order to heighten the interest she had elevated the writer, Mr. Milne, to the order of knighthood by giving him an accolade with her pen.

How naïve and ingenuous must be the Hungarian nature! Fancy a number of serious American business men writing to an American journal concerning an exciting story like that of Mr. Milne.