CHAPTER XII

INTRODUCING PHIL CRANE

The new arrival was a man of possibly thirty years, with twinkling blue eyes and brick-red hair. That his clothes were made of the best material and were cut by an English tailor were facts not to be gain-said, even by their tattered and torn and generally dilapidated condition. One sleeve of his coat was in holes and scorched with powder. He was hatless, and his hair, long and shaggy, tumbled about his brow. There was no need to ask his nationality. He was an Englishman--a travelled Englishman--since the two are very different beings.

"My name is Crane--Philip Aloysius Crane," he announced as he vigorously gripped Fenton's hand.

"Donald Fenton, at your service," said the Canadian.

"I am speechless, floored for lack of suitable words to express my delight at meeting someone from the tight little island," declared Philip Aloysius Crane. "You see I've been six months without hearing a word of English spoken except by myself--and in the state of mind I've been in I've been able to express myself only in terms of profanity. So you'll understand these--er--ebullitions, my unwonted--er--exuberance."

"You've got nothing on me just now," declared Fenton. "I started out on an important mission without knowing a word of Ironian, except the equivalent for 'faster'--and with the kind of driver I had that was the one word I didn't need. I'm just beginning to realise that I'm practically stranded."

"Then I'm just the man you're looking for," said Crane. "I talk Ironian like a native; or no, hardly that. I talk it with my tongue and not with my shoulders and eyebrows. If I can be of any service to you as interpreter, command me."

"I've got to find my way into the hill country," explained Fenton. "If you could come along with me it would solve the difficulty. But first I ought to explain to you that it might prove a pretty dangerous business."

Crane's weary face lighted up under its coating of dust.

"Danger! Why, my dear boy, that's what I've lived on for the last six months," he declared. "Goodness knows, it's about all I've had in way of sustenance up there in the oil country lately."

"The oil country?" This questioningly.

"Yes. You see I'm an engineer and supposed to know something about oil. If you know anything of this country you are aware that they have some big oil wells in the north-west section. As a matter of fact they've got about the finest certified gold mine in those same oil fields that I've ever seen, especially since the war broke out, and they've been able to sell petroleum to Austria and Germany at war prices.

"Another Englishman and myself signed on here three years ago," he went on. "All the work is done under the superintendence of imported engineers, mostly Austrian and German. Redfield and I were the only Englishmen there, and he left over a year ago--lucky beggar! When the war broke out things got pretty uncomfortable for me. You see, the owners didn't want to lose the profits they make on shipping oil across the border, and for that reason they've been fighting tooth and nail to keep the country neutral. I came under suspicion naturally and I suppose I was pretty outspoken. I had a dust-up pretty nearly every day with some of the others, and finally, when I tried to get out of the country to go home and enlist, they clapped me into jail. That was six months ago, and I've been there ever since--a filthy hole with a wooden bench as a bed and a family of toads as company. Four days ago I persuaded one of the guards--with the bench--to let me go. I got away safely enough, but one of the other guards nearly potted me. Since then I've been beating my way back to civilisation, begging from the peasants and sleeping under the glorious panoply of heaven. I haven't a cent in my pockets. I haven't even a hat. Perhaps you will now appreciate the faint stirring of pleasure that came over me when I met a man who talked English--and had a motor-car!"

Fenton decided that he liked this Englishman and that he could safely trust him. Accordingly he told Crane something of the mission which was taking him to the hill country.

"Suits me down to the ground," said Crane, gripping Fenton's hand again. "I'll go along as interpreter--anything at all so long as I get my share of the scrapping. I've acquired a grouch against the whole country that won't work off until I've battered my fists on some honest Ironian faces. I've stayed here six months at their wish; now I'll stay a few days longer on my own account and wipe off a few scores. Besides I came out here with a sneaking hope that I'd meet with romantic adventures of the Anthony Hope brand--you know, pink the prince and marry the beautiful lady-in-waiting and all that sort of thing. So far, the only Ironian women I've met have been honest peasant bodies who looked on sour milk as a luxury."

At this point the old priest approached them and intimated that it had been his intention to ask Mr Fenton to partake of his humble fare, and perhaps the new-comer, too, would join them.

They accepted; Crane with a readiness that spoke eloquently of the length of his fast. Fenton then hastily scribbled a note to Varden and handed it to Jaleski.

"Tell him, Crane," he said, "that he's to get back to Serajoz as fast as he can do it with any degree of safety. Tell him it's a matter of life and death, but that he isn't to run any risk of killing himself till after he's delivered that note."

Crane relayed the message to Jaleski, who acknowledged it with a deep obeisance and climbed with alacrity into the driver's seat. The car glided off and, with rapidly increasing speed, vanished into the distance. The cloud of dust that marked its course showed that Jaleski had understood fully the first part of the message, if not the last.

"Lord help anyone or anything that gets on the road between here and Serajoz this day!" said Fenton.

They followed the priest to a vine-covered cottage standing beside the village church. On entering they found themselves in a small room, scrupulously clean and reflecting an atmosphere almost of culture despite the cheapness of the sparse furnishings. A table and several wooden chairs and a small case of unsized boards containing a few ancient, much-used books were the chief articles that the room contained. At one end was a stone fireplace, blackened by the smoke of many score years. On the mantle above was a large crucifix. The table was set for a frugal supper of dried goat meat, black bread and fruit. The priest, with an air of earnest courtesy that might have graced the most sumptuous of banquets, bade his guests be seated. A silent serving-woman of rare old age but unimpaired activity placed two extra plates and the necessary knives and forks. Neither Fenton nor Crane needed any second bidding to fall to, for the former's appetite had been whetted on the trip from the capital, and the latter had reached the stage where a piece of dried leather would have seemed a toothsome morsel. The priest ate sparingly himself and watched the prodigious efforts of his young guests with a benevolent smile lurking in the fine wrinkles that time had written around eyes and mouth.

"Reverend Father, I shall always rank you a good first on my list of benefactors!" declared Crane with fervour when the last shred of food had been consumed. "I've sat down to many a fine meal in my time, but the memory of this will remain with me to my dying day. You've saved my life."

"What it is to be young," assented the priest, with a gracious delight in the exercise of his hospitality. "When youth and the good appetite together go even the coarse fare of a humble priest can seem good. My sons, it pleases me much your company to have."

"The pleasure is more than mutual," said Crane. "I assure you, Father, that I shall tear myself away with great reluctance. I shudder at the thought of our trip back into that hill country again. It is rough up there."

"I have a friend in the hill country," said the priest. "A letter you shall take to him and the best he has shall be yours."

Fenton, who had regretted every moment spent in the satisfying of even so clamorous a possession as his appetite, now made a motion to get up.

"Father, you know the urgency of our mission, and will not think ill of us if we lose no time in setting out," he declared. "The life of the Princess Olga may depend upon our promptness."

The old priest restrained him with upraised hand, speaking in a low and cautious tone.

"A word in your ear, my son," he said. "It would be well to depart when no one sees. It shall be given out that you stay as my guests to-night. After night falls you leave with a guide that I find."

"You mean that we might be spied upon?" asked Fenton.

The priest hesitated.

"Differences of opinion are found even in such small hamlets as ours," he said, with a trace of sadness. "Those are here--those who might carry word ahead of your coming."

"You know best, I guess," said Fenton, endeavouring to accept the priest's dictum with as little impatience as possible. "But how can I stay here when I know she is in danger--that every minute counts?"

"It's common sense, though, Fenton," broke in Crane. "I've lived in the country long enough to know that you've got to keep your business strictly to yourself. In a matter of this kind you can't be too cautious. If you want to be of real assistance in this matter you'll have to keep cool for a few hours."

Fenton, who had risen during the discussion, sat down again. The kindly priest laid a wrinkled hand on his arm with a gesture that was almost a benediction.

"Listen, my son," he said. "By this time she whose safety we all wish above everything else in the world far away has been carried. A man of God who has brought the message to our people for fifty years, has baptised the children, married the young people and shriven the dying, knows much that goes on of which he cannot speak. A guide I know who will take you where the Princess Olga is, and also he will lead you to where is found Take Larescu."

"Larescu!" cried Crane in so loud a tone that the priest glanced anxiously around and laid a warning finger on his lips. "You mean the famous leader of the brigands, the king of the hills, the man who defies any authority but his own, but who volunteered under another name and fought in the Ironian army as a private all through the Turkish War?"

The priest answered him in guarded tones, but with an inflection of pride that no need for caution could subdue.

"Take Larescu is great patriot, great warrior, great friend of my people, the poor peasants," he said. "Larescu has fought the rich nobles, he has robbed and, God forgive him, has killed. He has sinned much, but his good deeds are as the trees in the great forest. When the war for the lost land comes Larescu will be at the front of battle. He is wise, he knows much of the great world. He can save our princess, young sir. To Larescu must you go first."

"The people who live in the mountains are almost a different race from the rest of the people of Ironia," explained Crane to Fenton. "They're a wild lot, with a gipsy strain in them. The government of Ironia has completely failed to impose any legal restraints on them. They have their own customs, their own laws, and a chief who rules them as absolutely as any king that ever lived. But if war breaks out they'll go and fight for Ironia to a man. And, Lord, how they can fight! Their chief, Take Larescu, is a giant who can take on any three ordinary men. I've heard stories of the wonderful things he has done that you wouldn't believe, but which I know are more than half true. Larescu is a combination of Theseus and Robin Hood, with a dash of D'Artagnan thrown in. If our host can enlist his sympathies the rescue of the lost princess will develop into a pleasant little picnic party."

The three men sat around the table and conversed in low tones as the shades of evening settled down, the priest chaining the interest of his guests with tales of Ironia's turbulent history, stories of Turkish oppression, of wars fought for liberty, of feudal strife and internecine struggle. In broken phrases that somehow embraced a graphic power of vivid portrayal, he told the life story of a down-trodden people only now groping on the threshold of nationhood.

"Drive the nobility and the oilcrats out of Ironia and you'd have the makings of a great nation," said Crane, taking up the thread of narrative where the priest left it. He proceeded to give a more detailed account of his own experiences, telling of the vast extent of the oil-fields and the huge profits that the owners were making. An Ironian workman received a few pence a day, doing the work for which a man elsewhere would receive as many dollars. The discipline was severe, almost as rigid, in fact, as in a penal institution. The law stopped practically at the boundary of the oil country; within that limit the word of the owners was law.

The priest listened silently, bowing his head in sad assent to many of the statements that the young Englishman made. Fenton also was silent, hearing but little of the conversation. He sat back in his chair and gloomily conjured up pictures of Olga in the power of the arch-villain, Miridoff. And Wellington, on the crucial field of Waterloo, did not long for night with greater intensity than did Fenton for the descent of the sheltering darkness which would enable him to start out on his quest.