Chapter 2

Again Miss Farrar protested, but the sergeant, in a benign and fatherly manner, smiled approvingly. Seating himself on the grass outside the fence, he leaned his back against the gatepost, apparently settling himself for conversation.

“Now, how long might it have been,” he asked, “before we showed up, that you seen us?”

“I saw you,” Miss Farrar said, “when Mr.--when that bicycle scout was talking to me. I saw the red bands on your hats among the bushes.”

The sergeant appeared interested.

“But why didn’t you let on to him?”

Miss Farrar laughed evasively.

“Maybe because I am from New York, too,” she said. “Perhaps I wanted to see soldiers from my city take a prisoner.”

They were interrupted by the sudden appearance of the smaller soldier. On his rat-like countenance was written deep concern.

“When I got to the turn,” he began, breathlessly, “I couldn’t see him. Where did he go? Did he double back through the woods, or did he have time to ride out of sight before I got there?”

The reappearance of his comrade affected the sergeant strangely. He sprang to his feet, his under jaw protruding truculently, his eyes flashing with anger.

“Get back,” he snarled. “Do what I told you!”

Under his breath he muttered words that, to Miss Farrar, were unintelligible. The little rat-like man nodded, and ran from them down the road. The sergeant made an awkward gesture of apology.

“Excuse me, lady,” he begged, “but it makes me hot when them rookies won’t obey orders. You see,” he ran on glibly, “I’m a reg’lar; served three years in the Philippines, and I can’t get used to not having my men do what I say.”

Miss Farrar nodded, and started toward the house. The sergeant sprang quickly across the road.

“Have you ever been in the Philippines, Miss?” he called. “It’s a great country.”

Miss Farrar halted and shook her head. She was considering how far politeness required of her to entertain unshaven militiamen, who insisted on making sentries of themselves at her front gate.

The sergeant had plunged garrulously into a confusing description of the Far East. He was clasping the pickets of the fence with his hands, and his eyes were fastened on hers. He lacked neither confidence nor vocabulary, and not for an instant did his tongue hesitate or his eyes wander, and yet in his manner there was nothing at which she could take offence. He appeared only amiably vain that he had seen much of the world, and anxious to impress that fact upon another. Miss Farrar was bored, but the man gave her no opportunity to escape. In consequence she was relieved when the noisy approach of an automobile brought him to an abrupt pause. Coming rapidly down the road was a large touring-car, filled with men in khaki. The sergeant gave one glance at it, and leaped across the road, taking cover behind the stone wall. Instantly he raised his head above it and shook his fist at Miss Farrar.

“Don’t tell,” he commanded. “They’re Blues in that car! Don’t tell!” Again he sank from sight.

Miss Farrar now was more than bored, she was annoyed. Why grown men should play at war so seriously she could not understand. It was absurd! She no longer would remain a party to it; and, lest the men in the car might involve her still further, she retreated hastily toward the house. As she opened the door the car halted at the gate, and voices called to her, but she pretended not to hear them, and continued up the stairs. Behind her the car passed noisily on its way.

She mounted the stairs, and crossing a landing moved down a long hall, at the further end of which was her bedroom. The hall was uncarpeted, but the tennis shoes she wore made no sound, nor did the door of her bedroom when she pushed it open.

On the threshold Miss Farrar stood quite still. A swift, sinking nausea held her in a vice. Her instinct was to scream and run, but her throat had tightened and gone dry, and her limbs trembled. Opposite the door was her dressing-table, and reflected in its mirror were the features and figure of the rat-like soldier. His back was toward her. With one hand he swept the dressing-table. The other, hanging at his side, held a revolver. In a moment the panic into which Miss Farrar had been thrown passed. Her breath and blood returned, and, intent only on flight, she softly turned. On the instant the rat-faced one raised his eyes, saw her reflected in the mirror, and with an oath, swung toward her. He drew the revolver close to his cheek, and looked at her down the barrel. “Don’t move!” he whispered; “don’t scream! Where are the jewels?”

Miss Farrar was not afraid of the revolver or of the man. She did not believe either would do her harm. The idea of both the presence of the man in her room, and that any one should dare to threaten her was what filled her with repugnance. As the warm blood flowed again through her body her spirit returned. She was no longer afraid. She was, instead, indignant, furious.

With one step she was in the room, leaving the road to the door open.

“Get out of here,” she commanded.

The little man snarled, and stamped the floor. He shoved the gun nearer to her.

“The jewels, damn you!” he whispered. “Do you want me to blow your fool head off? Where are the jewels?”

“Jewels?” repeated Miss Farrar. “I have no jewels!”

“You lie!” shrieked the little man. “He said the house was full of jewels. We heard him. He said he would stay to guard the jewels.”

Miss Farrar recognized his error. She remembered Lathrop’s jest, and that it had been made while the two men were within hearing, behind the stone wall.

“It was a joke!” she cried. “Leave at once!” She backed swiftly toward the open window that looked upon the road. “Or I’ll call your sergeant!”

“If you go near that window or scream,” whispered the rat-like one, “I’ll shoot!”

A heavy voice, speaking suddenly from the doorway, shook Miss Farrar’s jangled nerves into fresh panic.

“She won’t scream,” said the voice.

In the door Miss Farrar saw the bulky form of the sergeant, blocking her escape.

Without shifting his eyes from Miss Farrar, the man with the gun cursed breathlessly at the other. “Why didn’t you keep her away?” he panted.

“An automobile stopped in front of the gate,” explained the sergeant. “Have you got them?” he demanded.

“No!” returned the other. “Nothing! She won’t tell where they are.”

The older man laughed. “Oh, yes, she’ll tell,” he whispered. His voice was still low and suave, but it carried with it the weight of a threat, and the threat, although unspoken, filled Miss Farrar with alarm. Her eyes, wide with concern, turned fearfully from one man to the other.

The sergeant stretched his hands toward her, the fingers working and making clutches in the air. The look in his eyes was quite terrifying.

“If you don’t tell,” he said slowly, “I’ll choke it out of you!”

If his intention was to frighten the girl, he succeeded admirably. With her hands clasped to her throat, Miss Farrar sank against the wall. She saw no chance of escape. The way to the door was barred, and should she drop to the garden below, from the window, before she could reach the road the men would overtake her. Even should she reach the road, the house nearest was a half mile distant.

The sergeant came close, his fingers opening and closing in front of her eyes. He raised his voice to a harsh, bellowing roar. “I’m going to make you tell!” he shouted. “I’m going to choke it out of you!”

Although she was alone in the house, although on every side the pine woods encompassed her, Miss Farrar threw all her strength into one long, piercing cry for help. And upon the instant it was answered. From the hall came the swift rush of feet. The rat-like one swung toward it. From his revolver came a report that shook the room, a flash and a burst of smoke, and through it Miss Farrar saw Lathrop hurl himself. He dived at the rat-like one, and as on the foot-ball field he had been taught to stop a runner, flung his arms around the other’s knees. The legs of the man shot from under him, his body cut a half circle through the air, and the part of his anatomy to first touch the floor was his head. The floor was of oak, and the impact gave forth a crash like the smash of a base-ball bat, when it drives the ball to centre field. The man did not move. He did not even groan. In his relaxed fingers the revolver lay, within reach of Lathrop’s hand. He fell upon it and, still on his knees, pointed it at the sergeant.

“You’re MY prisoner, now!” he shouted cheerfully. “Hands up!”

The man raised his arms slowly, as if he were lifting heavy dumb-bells.

“The lady called for help,” he said. “I came to help her.”

“No! No!” protested the girl. “He did NOT help me! He said he would choke me if I didn’t--”

“He said he would--what!” bellowed Lathrop. He leaped to his feet, and sent the gun spinning through the window. He stepped toward the man gingerly, on the balls of his feet, like one walking on ice. The man seemed to know what that form of approach threatened, for he threw his arms into a position of defence.

“You bully!” whispered Lathrop. “You coward! You choke women, do you?”

He shifted from one foot to the other, his body balancing forward, his arms swinging limply in front of him. With his eyes, he seemed to undress the man, as though choosing a place to strike.

“I made the same mistake you did,” he taunted. “I should have killed you first. Now I am going to do it!”

He sprang at the man, his chin still sunk on his chest, but with his arms swinging like the spokes of a wheel. His opponent struck back heavily, violently, but each move of his arm seemed only to open up some vulnerable spot. Blows beat upon his chin, upon his nose, his eyes; blows jabbed him in the ribs, drove his breath from his stomach, ground his teeth together, cut the flesh from his cheeks. He sank to his knees, with his arms clasping his head.

“Get up!” roared Lathrop. “Stand up to it, you coward!”

But the man had no idea of standing up to it. Howling with pain, he scrambled toward the door, and fled staggering down the hall.

At the same moment the automobile that a few minutes before had passed up the road came limping to the gate, and a half-dozen men in uniform sprang out of it. From the window Lathrop saw them spread across the lawn and surround the house.

“They’ve got him!” he said. He pointed to the prostrate figure on the floor. “He and the other one,” he explained, breathlessly, “are New York crooks! They have been looting in the wake of the Reds, disguised as soldiers. I knew they weren’t even amateur soldiers by the mistakes in their make-up, and I made that bluff of riding away so as to give them time to show what the game was. Then, that provost guard in the motor car stopped me, and when they said who they were after, I ordered them back here. But they had a flat tire, and my bicycle beat them.”

In his excitement he did not notice that the girl was not listening, that she was very pale, that she was breathing quickly, and trembling.

“I’ll go tell them,” he added, “that the other one they want is up here.”

Miss Farrar’s strength instantly returned.

With a look of terror at the now groaning figure on the floor, she sprang toward Lathrop, with both hands clutching him by his sleeves.

“You will NOT!” she commanded. “You will not leave me alone!”

Appealingly she raised her face to his startled countenance. With a burst of tears she threw herself into his arms. “I’m afraid!” she sobbed. “Don’t leave me. Please, no matter what I say, never leave me again!”

Between bewilderment and joy, the face of Lathrop was unrecognizable. As her words reached him, as he felt the touch of her body in his arms, and her warm, wet cheek against his own, he drew a deep sigh of content, and then, fearfully and tenderly, held her close.

After a pause, in which peace came to all the world, he raised his head.

“Don’t worry!” he said. “You can BET I won’t leave you!”

End of Project Gutenberg’s Peace Manoeuvres, by Richard Harding Davis