Part 11

He gave up the expedition and started back. Through one car--two, three. And then he began to have misgivings. What was the name of his car? Santa Clara? Middleditch? Marianola? Spencersfield? None of them sounded familiar. For that matter, what was the number of his berth? Lower--Lower Five? Seven? Twelve? Ten? That bit of information, too, escaped him. He went through another car to see if any of the green curtains looked familiar. Then he went back through three or four cars. The cars were all alike. The curtains were all alike. The numbers meant nothing.

The train threw itself round a curve just as George Banks came opposite the curtained entrance to the men's room of the good car Gwendoline. George's feet forsook him. He was catapulted through the curtain and saved himself from destruction only by a lucky grab at a passing wash basin. He pulled himself upright. The shock was great. He eased himself to a position of comfort on the long leather seat. It had been a long walk through all those cars, back and forth.

In fact he was remarkably sleepy. A tiring journey it had been.... Oh, well, the train was going to New York. Some porter could be persuaded to find him his berth in the morning. He drew his feet up and stretched out as far as possible on the seat. Presently he slept.

VI

The porter who came upon George Banks in the morning was a fat jolly person who had made many a friend and many a tip by his big-hearted way. He placed hand on the shoulder of the Banks blue silk pajamas. He shook ever so gently. He knew that you never know what will happen when you wake the gentlemen up.

"Cap'n, sir," he said in his easiest voice, "better wake up, sir. We in." There was a faint, almost indefinable sign of life from the gentleman in the blue pajamas. The porter allowed his pudgy hand to shake again. "Time you was up, sir," he said more than civilly. "Gettin'-up time."

He was rewarded with greater activity. The blue-pajamaed body uncurled itself in the manner of a boa constrictor.

"Wump!" said George Banks.

The hand on his shoulder continued to move gently back and forth.

"Yes, sir. Gettin'-up time. We in a station right this minute."

George Banks turned his head slightly, opened one eye and fixed it on the porter. He thought deeply for an instant.

"Wump?" he inquired.

"We right at a platform right this minute," the porter repeated. "This yere's Boston." George Banks sat up straight with both eyes wide.

"This yere's what?"

"Boston."

"Boston?"

"Boston, I says, Cap'n. Boston's right."

"Boston?"

"You said it."

George Banks sprang to his feet, disregarding the state of his equilibrial nerves. He took the porter by both shoulders and held him firmly.

"Now," he said sternly, "you think very carefully and tell me where we are. One false move may cost you your life. Tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Where are we?"

"Boston, Mass-a-chusitts, Cap'n, sir. I said it and I sticks to it. Boston, like a little brown bulldog."

The porter of the car Gwendoline was wondering what sort of case he had to deal with. He saw insanity in the reddish eyes of his man in blue pajamas.

"Look here," said George Banks, "I got on a train in Chicago yesterday and that train was going to New York. How can you tell me I'm waking up in Boston?"

"I ain't told you no lie, Cap'n, sir. I tells you we in Boston be-cause in Boston we is. 'Is yere car, she come from Chicago last night and you come with her. 'At's all I know."

"But I had a New York ticket and the conductor took it. I couldn't have been on the wrong train."

"Wrong train--no, sir. This car, she switch offn that train at Albany. This yere's the Boston car."

The truth poured into George Banks's tired brain. His clothes, his money--everything he had had with him was in New York. He released the porter. His limp arms flopped to his sides. He looked out the window at the wooden platform.

Suddenly he was galvanized into action. He sprang, knocking the porter to one side, swished through the curtained door and out to the station platform. Far away he saw the station. Pausing not, he took that direction as fast as his slippered feet would carry him, which was pretty fast, all things considered.

Through the glass swing doors he went across No Man's Land between station and trains, into the station, down the marble steps. Civilians and railroad employees stared at him. Women probably screamed. Children pointed. George Banks rushed on.

Before him was the street. In the street was an empty taxi. That was all the sprinting young man saw. Beyond that taxi he had no plans. All he knew was that there might be nameless delays in the station and in the taxi he was free. He splashed through the muddy street and jumped on the running board of the taxicab. The driver turned to him.

"Harvard Square, Cambridge!" shouted George Banks.

He opened the door and got inside. The taxi moved onward with a jerk that threw him into the seat.

"Them college boys!" sighed the driver to himself. "It's a wonder to me the things they do. Runnin' through the streets in pejammers!"

Within, George Banks huddled into a corner of the cab and thought hard. Whom did he know in Boston? There was his father's branch office, of course; but that would never do. There was old Miss Cable, his mother's second cousin; but she would serve even worse.... Wait--Jimmy Sayre! Jimmy Sayre, of course! Somewhere in Cambridge--James M. Sayre, 79--75--

He opened the door and yelled an address into the driver's ear.

The taxi man had to go up to the house and explain things a bit. He cleared the way and at a signal George Banks ran up the walk at top speed, causing, even so, considerable amazement among the breakfasting residents of Cambridge. Jimmy paid the taxi driver and gave George a bathrobe to cover his blueness.

"Better have a wash and some breakfast," said Jimmy. "Lil'll be down in a minute. Let me take you upstairs."

But the distracted look was still in George's eyes.

"Telephone," he said briefly.

"Sure, right in here," Jimmy led the way.

"I want to get the manager of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in New York," George Banks told the operator. There was fuss and waiting; interminable waiting, during which George Banks paced the rug and smoked Jimmy Sayre's cigarettes, Egyptian though they were. His host asked questions, but George was unable to give coherent answers. After a while the connection with New York was ready.

"Is this the manager? ... Well, I want to speak to somebody who has charge of the guests' mail.... Yeah.... All right, listen! I mailed a letter from Chicago night before last. Addressed to Miss Mildred Trudeau and marked Hold for Arrival.... Miss Mildred Trudeau. Mildred.... Yeah, Trudeau. That's right.... Now, I want that letter destroyed--destroyed, torn up, thrown away.... Yeah....

"What? Oh, don't be dumb. I wrote the letter, I tell you! It isn't the guests' mail unless the guests get it.... Yeah, but I wrote it; can't I have you destroy it if I want to? ... How do you know? How do you know anything? _Do you_ know anything? Of course I wrote it. How'd I know you had it if I didn't write it? ... Don't be dumb. Why can't you----"

The conversation continued a minute or two and came to a snappy conclusion when George Banks gave the Ritz gentleman certain specific directions as to where to go.

George jiggled the receiver hook and got the long-distance operator on the line again. He told her to get him the office of the White Star Line. Again there was a pause of minutes and again the telephone was ready with New York.

"Hello! White Star Line? Is the _Majestic_ docking this morning? ... She has, you say? What time? ... What time is it now? Do you suppose most of the passengers are still on the pier? ... Don't be fresh! I'm asking you for information. Is there any possibility of reaching one of the passengers by telephone? ... By telephone.... Yeah, I might better run down to the pier myself--in pajamas, from Boston. Sure, that's a good idea, too! I'm asking you if there's any chance of reaching one of the passengers by telephone. Is there? ... You're sure? ... No way at all, eh? All right. Thanks."

With a gesture of finality, George Banks put the receiver on the hook.

"Well, Jimmy, I've done all I could, haven't I?"

Jimmy Sayre, who had not the faintest idea of what it was all about, thought it was best to agree.

"It looks as though you had, Phooey."

"Thank you," said George Banks.

Again he placed the receiver at his ear and asked for long-distance. There was the shadow of a smile on his face.

"Long-distance, old dear. I'm awfully sorry to break in on your morning like this," he said. "I hope it isn't too much trouble....

"Will you please get me Great Neck, Long Island, one-one-six-one? ... Yep.... And ask for Miss Barbara Kittridge."

ARABIAN KNIGHTS

_By_ Octavus Roy Cohen

OCTAVUS ROY COHEN

One of the long-distance records for magazine publication of a series of stories is held by Octavus Roy Cohen, who was born in Charleston, S.C., on June 26, 1891, and who was a civil engineer, a newspaper man, and a lawyer before, in 1915, he gave his time exclusively to writing. The series of humorous negro stories centered about Florian Slappey which have appeared for years in the _Saturday Evening Post_ has provided a succession of diverting books with no less diverting titles--_Polished Ebony_, _Highly Colored_, _Assorted Chocolates_, _Black and Blue,_ etc.

"Arabian Knights," which is of this lineage, was first published in _Photoplay_.

In justice to Mr. Cohen the reader may be reminded that he is not a writer in a single vein. _The Crimson Alibi_--afterward made into a highly successful play--was his novel, and his negro stories have been interspersed with detective and mystery tales. In general his other fiction is of the type rather loosely called "dramatic"; and Cohen is famed among editors for his extraordinary gifts as a contriver of plots. Lately this gift for situation and the "O. Henry twist" has gained him a fresh reputation as the author of dramatic, highly compressed stories told in not more than a thousand words.

ARABIAN KNIGHTS[1]

[1] Copyright, 1926, by Octavus Roy Cohen.

J. Cæsar Clump, director-in-chief for the Midnight Pictures Corporation, Inc., of Birmingham, Alabama, reclined in a hammock and gazed languidly down upon the city of Algiers. He was engaged in the task of whipping his brain into a subjective state, in order that he might more efficiently consider a new story idea suggested that morning by Forcep Swain, Midnight's elegant author.

Physical conditions were ideal. He was surrounded by the vivid vegetation of the hotel gardens. Overhead the sun streamed warmly from an unflecked sky. Through the iron grill of the garden gates he could see the narrow, winding streets of Mustapha Superieur, fashionable suburb of Algiers: and far below the harbor stretched--all sapphire and burnished gold, studded with small and picturesque ships: fishing boats with queer, triangular sails; decrepit tramp steamers from Gibraltar, Marseilles, Venice, Naples, Genoa and North African ports; one tremendous liner stopping over in Algiers for a day in the course of a world cruise.

He extracted from his pocket a package of American cigarettes, liberally besprinkled with Algerian revenue stamps. He selected one, lighted it, and luxuriously inhaled the rich Virginia tobacco. He raised his putteed legs from the ground, settled them comfortably in the hammock, removed a checkered cap, and closed his eyes in order to give his thought processes the benefit of full physical comfort.

And then his superb serenity was shattered by a crashing in the shrubbery and a hoarse voice bellowing his name. Director Clump sat up and stared with ill-concealed hostility toward the sound.

"Mistuh Clump!" came the harsh, masculine call: "Hey, Cæsar! Where is you at?"

The director sighed and shook his head. Always when he slipped away for an hour of undisturbed thought, there was something to destroy his tranquillity. And usually it was this same person.

He waited resignedly until the enormous figure of Opus Randall, Midnight's most popular comedian, burst through a hedge of flowers and confronted him.

Mr. Randall was hot, tired, and indignant. His massive chest was heaving with exertion, his pudgy face was beaded with perspiration, and his fat legs trembled.

One glance at the face of the leading actor, and Director Clump knew that peace had departed for the afternoon. There were times when Opus was trying beyond the point of endurance--and this was one of the times. Cæsar Clump assumed a resigned look, waved a languid hand, and voiced a question.

"Well, Opus--wha's eatin' you now?"

Mr. Randall came close and hovered over the recumbent figure, upon which he gazed with ill-concealed hostility. His voice quivered with fury.

"Wha's the matter? Huh! That you could lay down there an' ask me such!" He doubled one big fist and spanked it into the palm of the other hand. "I reckon you know as well as me wha's the matter."

"Well, if you know an' I know--then us bofe knows, an' there ain't no need talkin' about it."

"Gittin' sarcastical, is you? Just like you been doin' ever since us fust come to Africa. You think you can talk to me like that--an' ride me all the time when us is workin'--an' gimme dirty work to do. I's good an' sick an' tired of it, an' I ain't gwine stan' it another minute."

"What does you aim to do?" inquired the director. His tone was smooth, but anger was commencing to smolder within the narrow bosom.

"Plenty!"

"What, f'r instant?"

Opus spluttered. He choked. He knew very well there was nothing he could do--but he hated to be reminded of that fact. Director Clump saw his opportunity and was quick to press the advantage.

"Now listen at me, Fat Boy. Ever since us left Bumminham you has been makin' trouble. Nothin' ever suits you. Always you is fightin' with Florian Slappey or Welford Potts or Aleck Champagne--or somebody. An' now you comes bustin' in on my solichude yellin' 'cause I has been givin' you some funny scenes----"

"Funny? Great Sufferin' Tripe! Who says they is funny? You reckon it's funny fo' me that you should chuck me overboard fo' some fishermen to pull up in a net ... an' then a dawg-gone octopus gits in that net with me an' I is almost drowned an' besides also scared to death? I guess you think I just laughed myse'f sick, don't you? An' was it funny I should fall down them stone steps in the native quarter this mawnin'? Why di'n't you tell me there was a rope across that street?"

Mr. Clump explained patiently. "I wanted the fall to look nachel."

"Ooooow! So that's it? An' you takes a chance of bustin' me all up! A lot you care does I crack my neck. Why don't you give Welford Potts some of them terrible things to do? Why is it always me, me, me when it comes to gittin' beat up?"

Mr. Clump rose and his voice crackled. "Stop! You quit kickin' an' listen at me! I craves to make somethin' plain to yo' fat head--once an' fo' all time. You signed up with this comp'ny to play slapstick comedy. You is a comedian an' tha's all what you is. But ev'ything you gits tol' to do, you raises a howl. What do you think you is, anyhow--a tragedian? Wantin' to play _Hamlick_ or somethin' like that? Now I'se finished, th'oo and done with you. I has exhausted my temper an' next time you do any of this yellin' aroun' you gits fined an' laid off without sal'ry. Git that clear. I has tried to keep fum havin' trouble with you. I has let you buzz aroun' like a crazy hawssfly ... but I'se finished. You ain't nothin' but a straw an' I is a camel's back. I has done broke! Now--git!"

Opus stared intently at his chief. It was the first time he had ever seen the immaculate little man aroused to a high pitch of ill humor and instinct warned him that Mr. Clump had been exasperated to the absolute limit of his endurance. Opus was no fool. He swung around with what dignity he could muster and crashed away through the flowers and palms. He assumed a grand manner, but he knew that his bluff had been called--and he boiled with rage.

Mr. Randall wished to convey the impression that he accepted the dictum of his director. He wished Mr. Clump to lower his guard in order that the force of Opus's retaliating blow might be unimpaired. Mr. Randall vowed vengeance! And, what was more, he knew precisely how he intended wreaking it.

He moved through the luxurious gardens in search of a particular person. He found her in a tiny palm grove, sipping tea and eating little cakes. She was a slender and attractive creature of undoubted strength of character. Opus bowed low.

"Good evenin', Mis' Clump."

"Evenin', Opus. How is you this evenin'?"

"Tol'able, thank you." He seated himself opposite, and yawned. "Algiers suttinly bores me. Nothin' to do an' heaps of time to do it in."

Mrs. Sicily Clump smiled. "Reckon you must be the only bored pusson in the Midnight troupe, Opus."

"How come? Ain't Cæsar bored?"

"My husban'?" She gestured in negation. "Nossuh, he showly ain't. He says this is the finest town fo' pitchers we has found since we come abroad. All day he wuks an' at night he goes out an' gathers material."

"Oh! he does?" Opus eyed her speculatively and tried to make his question casual. "Is he goin' out tonight?"

"Showly."

"Where?"

"Down to the water front to watch the ships an' git ideas. Him an' Florian Slappey is goin'."

Mr. Randall emitted a large and raucous laugh, and Mrs. Clump leaned forward.

"What at is you laughin', Brother Randall?"

"Nothin', Mis' Clump. Nothin' at all--'cept that a lady which has been ma'ied to a man as long as you has, should b'lieve such fumadiddles."

"You mean my husban' ain't gwine to no water front? You mean you know where him an' Florian is really goin'?"

"Uh-huh." Mr. Randall drummed on the table-top. "Now you mind, Sicily--I ain't tryin' to start somethin'. But I happen to know that where Cæsar an' Florian really is goin' is down to a Arab dancin'-girl place on a li'l alley right off that Rue de la Kasba we seen the other day."

Sicily smiled. "Tha's where you is wrong, Opus. The place what you mention, Florian an' my husban' went to las' night with my permission."

"Aaah! An' they had such a good time with them cullud dancin' ladies that tonight they goes back without tellin' you they is doin' such." Opus rose ponderously. "Sicily, what you ain't got in you' haid is no brains."

He retired in excellent order, leaving Sicily Clump sitting straight up in her chair, eyes focused upon a tangerine. She knew instinctively that Opus had spoken the truth, and her wifely wrath was beginning to mount.

Reviewing the events of the past week, it seemed as though her husband and Florian had been unnaturally zealous in their hunt for filmable material. Last night Cæsar had told her frankly that he wished to visit a hall where Algerian girls performed Arab dances. His frankness disarmed her, and she gave her permission. But if, tonight, he was returning to the dance hall and concealing his intention of doing so--then she felt that it behooved her, as a lawfully wedded spouse, to do something.

Mr. Randall was thoroughly satisfied with the start he had made. He knew Sicily was no bungler. He realized that she would proceed carefully--and to the complete eventual discomfiture of the dapper director who persisted in making Opus's life one misery after another. Meanwhile he seated himself on the ground with his back against an orange tree and lost himself in thought. A peaceful smile played about his lips and until a voice broke upon his ears he was unaware of another's presence in the vicinity.

"What is you so happy about, Opus?"

Mr. Randall looked up at the trim little figure of Edwin Boscoe Fizz, Midnight's second director. Mr. Randall frowned. He resented the imputation that he was happy.

"I'se mis'able!" he snapped. "Entirely an' completely unhappy."

"How come you is smilin', then?"

"Just got to fool people. 'Fraid if I don't smile, folks will stop thinkin' I'se a comedjin. But my heart ain't smilin', Eddie--it's bustin'."

Mr. Fizz seated himself beside the portly actor. "Shuh! Opus, that ain't no way to talk. S'pose you tell me what's wrong?"

Mr. Randall was quite willing to unburden himself. "I showly wisht you was my director, Eddie--instead of that uppity, strutful Cæsar Clump. What I think of that feller----"

Eddie Fizz stiffened. "Quit talkin' that away, Opus. Cæsar Clump is the fondest man I is of."

"Well, I ain't gwine be yo' rival. You is a better man than him an' a better director. Was you handlin' me, you woul'n't be doin' me the dirty tricks he is."

"Like what, f'rinstance?"

Opus unfolded his worries and laid them out before the eyes of Eddie Fizz. But somehow, Eddie failed to agree with him, even though he was sympathetic. Soft-heartedness was one of Eddie's greatest shortcomings. "I think you takes things all wrong, Opus," he volunteered. "Wasn't you such a good actor, you woul'n't git so much rough stuff to do. An' you is lucky to have such a swell director as Cæsar----"

"Piffles! That slice of tripe! That----"

"You cain't call him out of his name befo' me!" Eddie had risen and was confronting the infuriated Opus with aggressive loyalty.

"I reckon I can. I ain't quarrelin' with you, Eddie. I like you fine. But I has got my 'pinion of Mistuh Julius Cæsar Clump an' there ain't nobody gwine change me. N'r neither I ain't no pusson to sit back idle an' git stepped on. Cæsar has insulted me, an' when I'se insulted I fights! I'se gwine make that feller wish he hadn't never been bawn. I'se gwine----"

"Is you threatenin' him?"

"Tha's the one thing I ain't doin' nothin' else but!"

Mr. Fizz turned away. "I cain't listen to you no mo' then, Opus. Us is friends, but Cæsar is mo' friendlier with me than you, so I bids you a respective good evenin'."

Opus stared after the slim figure. He liked Eddie--couldn't help liking the modest, inoffensive little man whose genius for comedy had elevated him to his present important post over the handicap of a shy, sensitive disposition. But he resented Eddie's loyalty to Cæsar Clump.

What if Clump had worked with Eddie and taught him all he knew? What if Eddie had attained directorship through handling Sicily Clump when her husband failed? Gratitude was one thing, but Opus felt that Mr. Fizz carried it to the point of insanity.

As for Eddie Fizz, he was considerably worried. He discounted Opus's threats, of course. Opus was always threatening somebody. He was an inveterate trouble maker, the single member of the Midnight troupe possessing a violent case of temperament. But, just the same, it was well for him to know--as Cæsar's stanch friend--that there was somebody in the organization who bore him ill-will.

A low whistle was wafted to his ears. He traced it with his eyes and saw that it came from the lips of the elegant Mr. Florian Slappey. Florian leaned out of the window and called softly.

"Hey, Eddie--come up to my room a minute."

Mr. Fizz obeyed. He mounted the stairway and entered the bare little cubicle which Mr. Slappey occupied in solitary state. Then his eyes fell upon the other occupant of the room.

"Hello, Cæsar."

"Howdye, Eddie."

Florian dropped an affectionate hand on Eddie's shoulder and spoke beatifically. "Man! where Cæsar an' I was las' night!"

"That dancin'-girl place?"

"Uh-huh!" Florian rolled his eyes. "Hot diggity dawg!"

J. Cæsar Clump chuckled. "How 'bout you goin' back there with us tonight, Eddie?"

Mr. Fizz frowned. "You goin' back there?"

"Tha's the most thing we is aimin' to do."