The Argosy, April 1912 — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

AS THE DICE FELL. 7 group was the fact that they were by no ‘means the sort of folk one would expect to see gathered for emigration. There were few — almost none — of the hardy, rugged tradesman or farmer or mechanic class that go aboard for such voyages. Some of the men were gaily pranked out in tottered finery and wore long swords. Some were in rags, and had the faces and bearing of cheap criminals. Others were palpably “broken.” fellows who had served long as Fate’s useless playthings. In one corner sat an elderly, plainly dressed man of strong countenance. Be- side him, clad in a long cloak, whose hood half hid her face, sat a girl who, from her general likeness to him, seemed his daugh- ter. These two held aloof from the noisy crowd of their fellow voyagers. The girl was pretty. I noted little else about her at the time. Tor my eyes were busy seeking out mine enemy. From face to face I peered through the blue tobacco- clouds. But I could see no one who bore the slightest resemblance to Forgeron. Clearly he was not here. And I grew sick with disappointment. Well, if he were not in this room, he was doubtless elsewhere in the house. he might be hiding I would have him forth. I turned on my heel to leave. ‘There in the doorway stood the man who had admit- ted me—-the man who owned the red Indian as a servant. But now, instead of being blackly silhouetted and unrecognized, he stood in the lamplight’s full glare. And I knew him. It was Forgeron, mine enemy. “Forgeron!” I shouted, drawing sword. “You remember me? This time our quar- rel can be settled once and for all.” In his stern yet twinkling little eyes I saw perfect recognition. Indeed, I think he had recognized me at that first glimpse in the passageway. Yet he made no movement either to defend himself or escape. In- stead, he stood with folded arms, calmly and amusedly surveying me. Let me draw his picture for you in a mere thimbleful of words. For he was a man whose mark shall rest on history so long as his story shall endure. He was of middle height, perhaps twen- ty-eight or thirty years old, thick-set and of enormous strength. His forehead was high and broad, though tanned brown by the weather. His brows were beetling and bushy above the sharp, fierce eyes. I would search, and wherever A great sweeping mustache, worn French fashion, covered his firm, thick - lipped mouth. A monstrous bristling beard hid his lower face and jutted forth like a cour- tier’s ruff. There was about him, moreover, the in- definable air that bespeaks the born leader of men, and a certain boarlike truculence that seemed ever to be warring with a desire for laughter. 7 As I have told “you, Forgeron made no move either to meet or to elude my attack. He stood unmoved, eying me with a quiz- zical half smile. “You remember me?” I repeated furi- ously, standing ready to plunge into the combat on the very instant his sword should be out of its scabbard. -‘I remember you well,” he replied in that great harsh voice I now so well re- called. “You are Gordon Clyde, a gallant soldier of fortune, whom I would far rather enroll as a friend and a comrade than as a foe. It was for that reason I would not resume our duel in Hungary.” “You have no choice now,” “Will you fight, man, or shall I strike you across the face with the flat of my sword, here in the presence of your own associates ? Which shall it be, M. Forgeron?” “My name is not ‘ Forgeron,’” he an- swered, as though patiently correcting a stupid child. ‘“ Nor am I monsieur. I am an Englishman, like your somewhat pep- pery self. *“Iwas but for a nom de guerre that on the Continent I translated my Brit- ish name into its French equivalent. Know you not what ‘ Forgeron’ means? ’Tis the French word for ‘ Smith.’ And I am Cap- tain John Smith—all at your service. I—” “Tt matters not who you are,” I retorted, in no wise interested in his explanation. “You are the man who made me the laugh- ing-stock of the Hungary camp. And for that you shall pay. Will you fight or—” “Oh, I will fight!” he assented wearily. “But I would far liefer be your friend. If an apology will serve— No? Then be it as you wish.” He still made no effort to draw sword, and I waxed doubly impatient. The bulk of the emigrants had flocked close about us, eager to witness the fray. “Vou challenge me, I understand?” re- marked the immovable Smith. “TI assuredly do,” I flashed. man!” “ By the laws of the duello,” he resumed “ Draw, COM chook I cried. CO