Adventure, December 1914 — page 86: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

84 brought down at long range by a rifleman. Within ten minutes the dead man had been stripped and his letter was on its way to Dick. In the Princess’ usual style the envelope was unaddressed, though it bore her scrawled initials. Dick tore it open— read the message to the Cossack infantry, ordering them to take to the hills and lie in ambush there—frowned, folded it, tied it in a cleft stick in a way that is customary all through the East—and called a horse- man. “Take this letter. Ride until you find the Russian infantry. Give it to their officer commanding. Say you had it from the Princess Olga Karageorgovich.”’ ‘““What if he knows I lie, and orders me shot?” the Persian asked. ‘Then you will die!’’ said Dick. ‘God knows!” the man answered, turn- ing to get his horse. ‘‘We are all in Allah’s hand—theu and I and the Russians! Bahadur i The fellow gave a nearly perfect imita- tion of Usbeg Ali’s wonderful salute. “In case I am not believed—in case——” he changed to an Eastern salaam, both hands to his forehead, and then bowing low—‘“‘The honor has been mine, bahadur! May Allah give thee good counsel and good men to lead! Salaam!” ‘‘Salaam!”’ said Dick, watching the man mount and ride off. ‘‘Would God they were all of them like you!’ he muttered as the man turned in the saddle to wave fare- well. Dick needed rousing and he knew it. In- cidents such as that man’s speech—things that he would have accepted formerly as all in the day’s work—were enough now to make him gloomy. Even the thought of catching two regiments of infantry asleep, and so putting all the Russian troops in that part of Persia hors de combat, did not set the blood boiling through his veins as it should have done. Even Andry’s quiet friendship and last-ditch loyalty no longer stirred the same feeling in him. His thoughts were dwelling far too much on Scotland and his own involuntary exile. He was wondering whether he might ever clear himself of the charge of filibustering, or whatever other name they might give to his adventure— whether he might ever see his rain-swept native hills again; and his thoughts were making him sick. The great plan that still lingered in his head no longer seemed so Adventure great, nor so pressing, nor so thoroughly worth while. Andry, worrying about him behind his back, went through the Russian medical stores in the hope of finding physic that he recognized. The names on the bottles were in Russian character, but he found at last what looked like rhubarb pills; he cut one in halves, and bit it; it was acrid, and that seemed to settle the point. Knowing Dick’s contempt for medicines, but firm in his own belief in them, he ground up the other half of the pill and gave it to Dick in a cup of coffee. Ten minutes later Dick vomited until his bowels ached for emptiness, while Andry looked on, nodding grim approval. “Ay! ’Twas his belly was the matter!’’ he said sagely. ‘In an hour or less there’ll be no holdin’ him again!” Andry proved right, however wrong his diagnosis; for within an hour Marie Mou- quin’s messenger rode into view and threw his hands up in the nick of time. Being bribed, he had ridden half as fast again as the Princess’ threatened gallopers. They led him to Dick, but he insisted he had word for ‘“‘Anreema Doogeel’”’; and Andry recog- nized him as the man who had carried mes- sages before. He was one of those not so very rare birds who have not got it in them to submit to discipline or drill—who cannot be regular in anything—but who can be loyal to the last breath in them if only trusted with a secret and well paid. He gave Andry a big envelope, and Andry passed it to Dick without so much as look- ing at it. “Tt’s yours,” said Dick. ‘Open it.” One by one, with awkward fingers that were more used to heavy labor, Andry drew out a letter from the French maid to him- self, a folded map and twelve sheets of closely written carbon copy. He passed everything to Dick except the letter, and presently Dick was his old-time self again— awake, with his heart in his task anda steel-spring grip on things. He sat on an ant-hill, poring over the map and comparing it paragraph by para- graph and line by line with the carbon-copy of a letter; his eyes glinted as he recognized the unmistakable genuineness of map and letter, both; he recognized careful work- manship, and most ingenious pains in the provision for a constant succession of bri- gades on the march southward. And with an instant genius that is born in a few men, Gomiicovook (C@