Adventure Magazine Cover — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

The King in Check Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, were in flood as usual at that time of year, and the scavenging street curs had to swim from one garbage heap to the next. There was a gorgeous battle going on opposite the hotel door, where half-a-dozen white-ivoried mongrels with their backs to a heap of kitchen leavings held a ford against a dozen others, each beast that made good his pas- sage joining with the defenders to fight off the rest. I stood on the hotel steps and watched the war for several minutes, while Grim went in with the others and registered as “Rupert Ramsden of Chicago, U.S. A., and party.” The flood, and darkness owing to the lack of fuel, were all in our favor, for such folk as were abroad were hardly of the sort whose gossip would carry weight; nevertheless, we hadn’t been in the hotel twenty minutes before an agent of the bank put in his ap- pearance, speaking French volubly. See- ing my name on the register, he made the mistake of confining his attention to me, which enabled Grim to get Mabel safely away into a big room on the second floor. The Frenchman (if he was one—he had a Hebrew nose) made bold to corner me on a seat near the dining-room door. He was nervous’ rather than affable—a little pom- pous, as behooved the representative of money power—and evidently used to hav- ing his impertinences answered humbly. “You are from the South? Did you have a good journey? Was the train attacked? Did you hear any interesting rumors on the way?” Those were all preliminary questions, thrown out at random to break ice. As he sat down beside me you could feel the next one coming just as easily as see that he wasn’t interested in the answers to the first. “Vou are here on business? What busi- ness?” “Private business,” said I, with an eye on Jeremy just coming down the stairs. “You talk Arabic?” He nodded, eyeing me keenly. “That man is my servant and knows my affairs. I’m too tired to talk after the jour- ney. Suppese you ask him.”’ So Jeremy came and sat beside us, and -threw the cow’s husband around as blithely as he juggles billiard balls. I wasn’t sup- posed to understand what he was saying. “The big effendi is a prizefighter, who has heard there is money to be made at Feisul’s 51 court. At least, that is what he says. Be- tween you and me, I think he is a spy for the French Government, because when he en- gaged me in Jerusalem he gave me a fist-full of paper francs with which to send a tele- gram to Paris. What was in the telegram? I don’t know; it was a mass of figures, and I mixed them up on purpose, being an honest fellow averse to spy’s work. Oh, I’ve kept an eye on him, believe me! Ever since he killed a Syrian in the train I’ve had my doubts of him. Mashallah, what a murder- ous disposition the fellow has! Kill a man as soon as look at him—indeed he would. Are you a prince in these parts?” ‘““A banker.” “Bismillah! you. I overheard him say that he will visit the bank tomorrow morning to cash a draft for fifty thousand francs. I’d examine the draft carefully if I were you. It wouldn’t surprize me ‘to learn it was stolen or forged. Is there any other bank that he could go to?” ‘“"No, only mine; the others have sus- pended business on account ef the crisis.” “Then, in the name of Allah don’t forget me! You ought to give me a thousand francs for the information. I am a poor man but honest. At what time shall I come for the money in the morning? Perhaps you could give me a little on account at once, for my wages are due tonight and I’m not at all certain of getting them.” ‘“‘Well; see me in the morning,” said the banker. He got up and left us at once, hardly troubling to excuse himself; and Grim heard him tell the hotel proprietor that our whole party would be locked up in jail before mid- night. That rumor went the rounds like wild-fire, so that we were given a wide berth and had a table all to ourselves in the dark- est corner of the big, dim dining-room. There were more than a hundred people eating dinner, and Narayan Singh, Hadad and I were the only ones in western clothes. Every seat at the other tables was occupied by some Syrian dignitary in flowing robes— rows and rows of stately-looking notables, scant of speech and noisy at their food. Many of them seemed hardly to know the use of knife and fork, but they could all look as dignified as owls, even when crowd- ing in spaghetti with their fingers. We provided them with a sensation before the second course was finished. A fine-look- ing Syrian officer in khaki, with the usual COMIC OOo Cc S What a mercy that I met (C@