The Argosy for May — page 69: what you’re looking at

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

256 An angry man is not unlike a child. A man furious as I, and, at the same time, so sorely perplexed and _heart- broken, is perhaps little better than an imbecile. And always that reddening welt on my face burned and stung. It ~seemed to me that the mark must blaze eut from my countenance and give notice to all: “Here is the man who was caned— beaten like a dog—and who did not re- sent it!” For many hours this insanity of mine must have waged. ‘Till; at last, by sheer fatigue and lapse of time, it smoldered down into something like normal men- tality, and I came to myself, wondering, at first, where I was. Dusk had fallen. I was in the Mont- martre district. JI must have wandered in a half-circle, covering many miles, yet pausing at length only a mile or two from my starting- point. — Montmartre, in those days, as later. was the home of workmen, poor students, riffraff, café politicians, and the ‘‘red”’ political societies. Not the safest place on earth, after nightfall. But, at that era of agita- tion, it was the home-ground of the most rabid of all the revolutionary factions, I loosened my small sword in its sheath, looked about me to fix my loca- tion, and, walking in midstreet, beyond the shadows of the rickerty houses, turned my steps homeward. I was passing a café, when its door was flung open, and one or two men started out. I crossed the broad path of light from within. One of the men lurched accidentally against me, in emer- ging from the brightly illuminated in- terior into the dusk of the street. The impact jarred him, and he gave vent to his feelings in one of those pe- culiarly offensive epithets for which the Paris pot-house politician is so justly celebrated. At another time, I might have let it pass. But now, my nerves raw, up flared my temper. Catching the fel- low suddenly by the shoulder, I shook him, as a puppy might shake a rag, and then threw him violently against the wall. He gathered himself together with a THE ARGOSY. volley of lurid curses, pulled out an ugly, short knife, and sprang toward me. CHAPTER VIII. A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE. Now, I had done an asinine thing. I had forced a fight in a district where human life was held even cheaper than in the revolutionary courts of the day. Also, my opponent was no doubt a member of one of the countless Mont- martre clubs or gangs, and had probably a score of friends within easy call more than willing to take up their comrade’s quarrel. I would be extremely lucky to escape alive. Still, having brought on the trouble, I would not adopt the one sane course left to me, namely, take to my heels. I stood my ground, half drawing my sword as my assailant bounded forward. Then an odd ‘thing happened: , The fellow halted — almost, as it seemed, in mid-leap. His truculent man- ner underwent a swift change. ‘Pardon, citizen,” he said, in brutal attempt at civility. “‘ May IT inquire your name?” “My name is Braith,” I replied, sur- prised. “Citizen John Braith—American? ” with a queer inflection on the last word. 66 Yes.”’ And I made as though to pass on. “One moment,” he ordered, barring my way, knife still gripped, He blew four peculiarly modulated notes on a whistle he had snatched out of a pocket with his free hand. While I was still wondering at the action, and in doubt as to whether to thrust him to one side or to remain where I was, a half- dozen men ran out of the café. “We are in luck!” cried the man who had summoned them. ‘And I am glad the meeting was still on in there. It would have been a pity to let such prey escape. And, in my hurry, I was nigh to choosing for my own meat‘ what lawfully belongs to you all. Citizens! Brothers of the Montmartre Branch!” he went on oratorically. ‘‘ Permit me to present an honored guest. “Jack Braith— American ! ” I had scarce opportunity to note again COMMICLOOKS (C@