CHAPTER XI.
YOUNG CANADA ON DECK.
When the full meaning of what has happened flashes into Craig’s mind—when he sees Aroun Scutari, lord of the harem and pasha in the Sultan’s service, about to take Dorothy Cereal in his arms, it seems as though an electric battery must have suddenly become attached to the Canadian, so abrupt are his movements.
Leaving the side of the actor, while the other is speaking, he rushes straight for the scene of the kidnaping. Perhaps love urges his steps. At least the indignation of an honorable man sends him forward.
There is no palliation, no excuse for such an outrage, and hence the feeling he entertains for Scutari is that of righteous anger. Such a scene as this, of course, creates excitement. People gather quickly, no matter if it be a dog fight on the streets of Constantinople, an encounter between dragoman and donkey boy at Cairo on the Nile, an attempted assassination of a Czar at St. Petersburg, or a duelbetween two bootblacks in front of the City Hall in New York.
Already a score of people surround the two women. Questions fly back and forth. The authoritative manner in which Scutari assumes charge convinces those present that the lady who has fainted belongs to him. The veil hides her face, and while curious glances are cast in that quarter, none are so lucky as to see what lies under its screen.
Near by is the exit. Beyond, no doubt, the Turk has a carriage ready. His years of waiting seem about to be crowned with triumph—though he lost the mother he wins the daughter. Kismet: it is fate.
Unexpected obstacles arise in his path—obstacles which in his native land he could brush aside, or at least subdue with the sword, but which are of a more serious nature under the civilizing influence of the Stars and Stripes.
First of all, as the man from Stamboul is about to take Dorothy in his arms, he is surprised to find someone tugging at his sleeve, someone who seems bent upon distracting his attention, and who will not cease even when he gives a bearlike shrug.
When he hears a woman’s voice pouring upon his devoted head all the miserable names known in the Turkish language, the pasha, struck by a sudden recollection, thinks it worth while to turn his attention thither.
Of course it is the fortune teller; she realizes the peril of her child. Since the day when Samson Cereal stole her away, she has learned to look at the old-time habits of the Turks with aversion, and the mother love in her heart, which nothing on earth can destroy, urges her to save Dorothy.
As well might she appeal to a Nero. This dark-skinned man comes from a country where women are bought and sold. As he sees who thus annoys him, he frowns like a Tartar, and bellows out a string of oaths strange to the gathering crowd.
There are those who hear, those who know his voice but to obey. Two men seize upon the fortune teller of Cairo Street, and despite her struggles bear her away.
“She is crazy,” is the only reply they make to the questions showered upon them, as they half drag the woman further into the Plaisance.
Again the triumphant pasha bends forward to relieve the woman of her lovely burden, but, shades of Mohammed! what is this that now descends upon him with the fury of a young hurricane? What but the Canadian protectorate, bent upon stepping between Turkey and the daughter of Chicago!
One fling Craig gives the stout pasha, only a single flip of his well-trained arms, and the Oriental goes spinning around like a teetotum or a whirling dervish, bringing up in the arms of a gay young fellow who has just come from the beer tables of Old Vienna and is consequently in a hilarious condition.
“Set ’em up in t’other alley,” he shouts; “don’t send ’em in so hard. Whoop! now you’re in the game, old man; back you go,” with which the breezy reveler gives Aroun Scutari another whirl, which sends him halfway back again, a collision with an elderly woman bringing his mad dance to a sudden stop, as both of them fall over, and her startled screams add to the clamor.
No sooner has Aleck entered the affair than he has his hands full.
His action in seizing upon the sacred personof the Turk was equivalent to throwing down the gauntlet, and the Canadian is immediately set upon by a number of worthies whose itching palms have been crossed with the gold that makes them slaves to Scutari.
He is in his element, this man of Montreal: not that such a brawl is to his liking, but the object for which he strives is a sacred one to a gentleman—the defense of innocence.
They are four to one, and ugly customers at that. Aleck is no Admirable Crichton, and if left to himself, no matter how gallant his attack, he must presently go down before the numbers opposed to him.
The crowd seems paralyzed; in an affair of this kind, men usually believe it none of their business, but stand by and let those interested fight it out.
Through the fringe of spectators, however, someone pushes a way. It is Wycherley in search of his friend, and upon seeing Aleck so beset he throws himself into the breach, which evens up the game a little. More help comes from an unexpected quarter. The half-intoxicated young fellow, whose muscular ability sent Scutari flying on the back trip, has evidentlybeen spoiling for a fight. He picks out his man and faces him with the air of a scientific boxer, dazzles the eyes of the Oriental by the rapid use of his hands, and rains such a shower of blows upon him that the fellow, believing him a wizard with the six arms of a Chinese god, bellows for mercy.
The action has been swift, and the field won. Aroun Scutari reads his defeat in the signs so apparent, and wisely steals away. His minions sneak after him. Aleck turns to the woman who still holds the limp figure of Dorothy. It galls him to see one arm thrown about the neck of the treacherous woman, and Dorothy’s head resting on her shoulder.
“I don’t know what to say to you, madam. Your duplicity, your double-dealing, is known to me. I shall take the first opportunity to disclose it to your victim. Meantime you must assist me in getting her home—do you hear?”
She bows her head. This double break in her plans has taken all the confidence out of the woman who could plot against her best friend. She now fears the result—for if Samson Cereal is once aroused against her she may well tremble for her fate.
“Claude, see that she comes; we will find a carriage outside, perhaps.”
“Oh, I’ll get one for you, boys,” cheerfully declares the young roysterer, as he endeavors to walk a straight line to the exit.
With a strange feeling thrilling him through and through Aleck bends down and takes the young girl in his arms. She is not entirely senseless, for though her head droops upon his shoulder, he hears a fluttering breath and the words:
“Oh, my father!”
Reverently he raises his burden.
“Make way, friends,” he says to those in front, and the crowd parts before him. They have by this time managed to get an inkling of the truth through their heads, and between the dark-skinned Turk and the frank-faced Canadian their sympathies are wholly with the latter.
Strange to say, no Columbian guard has put in an appearance during the extraordinary fracas. They were everywhere when not wanted.
The exit is close at hand, and as they pass through Aleck sees a figure with waving arms,a figure he has no trouble in recognizing as their quondam partner in the late deal.
“This way! here’s your coach; step up lively now, gentlemen. We’re off over the divide.”
His incoherent jumble is enough to attract Aleck’s attention to the carriage, and he carefully deposits his burden inside.
“Enter,” he says to the woman beside Wycherley. She would refuse, but his voice terrifies her, and she obeys.
“Claude, tell the driver where to go. Then get in with me,” he adds calmly, and it is evident that even more than the strange events of this night of nights is needed to rattle Aleck Craig.
A moment later Wycherley gets in.
“Jove! that chap insists on sitting beside the driver, and rather than have a row I let him.”
“Who the deuce is he?”
“Give it up! Muttered something about Happy Jack, and as he’s always singing snatches of songs or laughing. I reckon he means the name for himself. Happy Jack—well, he’s to be envied such a disposition in this vale of tears.”
“Hello! what’s wrong now? I thought you were about as free from care as the next one?”
“In times gone by. As luck would have it I just saw the adorable Inez.”
“Oh! the pretty Spanish cigar girl.”
“It is too true—perfidious Inez.”
“Come, come, remember your philosophy.”
“But she was with another—a dashing young chap with the strut of a huzzar. I shall have to reduce him to the humble gait of a cork leg. Her glance was freezing. I am still like a cake of ice.”
“Perhaps she saw you had company—that it was jealousy influenced her.”
“Aleck, bless you, my dear boy. I take heart, I breathe again.”
Craig turns his attention to the woman who sits opposite, next the actor. The vehicle is making good progress, but it will be a wearisome journey to the North side.
“Before we reach this young lady’s home, madam, it is but fair that you and I should have some sort of explanation. You were supposed to be her protector; you betrayed your trust. I know all: your alliance withAroun Scutari, and everything that followed. You must quit her service to-morrow, for I mean to expose you.”
“I shall do as you say, sir. There is no need of explanations on my part. You would denounce my story as a fabrication; but I had cause, I had cause. What do you wish me to do to-night?”
“Assist in getting the young lady under her father’s roof, from which she should never have ventured on any such Quixotic errand.”
“You blame me for it, I know; but it was her own idea—she planned it all, and what followed the pasha took advantage of,” she insists.
It is on the tip of his tongue to ask about the young miner, but he suddenly shuts his teeth together and changes his mind. Aleck Craig has a fine sense of honor.
“You have placed yourself in a position where you are liable to criminal prosecution,” he says sternly.
The woman laughs scornfully.
“You would not dare proceed against me,” she says.
“And why?”
“Because my sweet mistress would have to testify in court, and expose her own actions. I know them to be entirely innocent—that her motives were actuated by the holiest feelings of the heart, but the public would choose to believe otherwise. And to defend myself I would have to unearth family secrets that would make the name of Samson Cereal the talk of the town. Now, will you prosecute, sir?”
“We shall be content if you leave your place in the morning,” replies Aleck discreetly.