Chapter VI (1)

The porter who came upon George Banks in the morning was a fat jolly person who had made many a friend and many a tip by his big-hearted way. He placed hand on the shoulder of the Banks blue silk pajamas. He shook ever so gently. He knew that you never know what will happen when you wake the gentlemen up.

"Cap'n, sir," he said in his easiest voice, "better wake up, sir. We in." There was a faint, almost indefinable sign of life from the gentleman in the blue pajamas. The porter allowed his pudgy hand to shake again. "Time you was up, sir," he said more than civilly. "Gettin'-up time."

He was rewarded with greater activity. The blue-pajamaed body uncurled itself in the manner of a boa constrictor.

"Wump!" said George Banks.

The hand on his shoulder continued to move gently back and forth.

"Yes, sir. Gettin'-up time. We in a station right this minute."

George Banks turned his head slightly, opened one eye and fixed it on the porter. He thought deeply for an instant.

"Wump?" he inquired.

"We right at a platform right this minute," the porter repeated. "This yere's Boston." George Banks sat up straight with both eyes wide.

"This yere's what?"

"Boston."

"Boston?"

"Boston, I says, Cap'n. Boston's right."

"Boston?"

"You said it."

George Banks sprang to his feet, disregarding the state of his equilibrial nerves. He took the porter by both shoulders and held him firmly.

"Now," he said sternly, "you think very carefully and tell me where we are. One false move may cost you your life. Tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Where are we?"

"Boston, Mass-a-chusitts, Cap'n, sir. I said it and I sticks to it. Boston, like a little brown bulldog."

The porter of the car Gwendoline was wondering what sort of case he had to deal with. He saw insanity in the reddish eyes of his man in blue pajamas.

"Look here," said George Banks, "I got on a train in Chicago yesterday and that train was going to New York. How can you tell me I'm waking up in Boston?"

"I ain't told you no lie, Cap'n, sir. I tells you we in Boston be-cause in Boston we is. 'Is yere car, she come from Chicago last night and you come with her. 'At's all I know."

"But I had a New York ticket and the conductor took it. I couldn't have been on the wrong train."

"Wrong train--no, sir. This car, she switch offn that train at Albany. This yere's the Boston car."

The truth poured into George Banks's tired brain. His clothes, his money--everything he had had with him was in New York. He released the porter. His limp arms flopped to his sides. He looked out the window at the wooden platform.

Suddenly he was galvanized into action. He sprang, knocking the porter to one side, swished through the curtained door and out to the station platform. Far away he saw the station. Pausing not, he took that direction as fast as his slippered feet would carry him, which was pretty fast, all things considered.

Through the glass swing doors he went across No Man's Land between station and trains, into the station, down the marble steps. Civilians and railroad employees stared at him. Women probably screamed. Children pointed. George Banks rushed on.

Before him was the street. In the street was an empty taxi. That was all the sprinting young man saw. Beyond that taxi he had no plans. All he knew was that there might be nameless delays in the station and in the taxi he was free. He splashed through the muddy street and jumped on the running board of the taxicab. The driver turned to him.

"Harvard Square, Cambridge!" shouted George Banks.

He opened the door and got inside. The taxi moved onward with a jerk that threw him into the seat.

"Them college boys!" sighed the driver to himself. "It's a wonder to me the things they do. Runnin' through the streets in pejammers!"

Within, George Banks huddled into a corner of the cab and thought hard. Whom did he know in Boston? There was his father's branch office, of course; but that would never do. There was old Miss Cable, his mother's second cousin; but she would serve even worse.... Wait--Jimmy Sayre! Jimmy Sayre, of course! Somewhere in Cambridge--James M. Sayre, 79--75--

He opened the door and yelled an address into the driver's ear.

The taxi man had to go up to the house and explain things a bit. He cleared the way and at a signal George Banks ran up the walk at top speed, causing, even so, considerable amazement among the breakfasting residents of Cambridge. Jimmy paid the taxi driver and gave George a bathrobe to cover his blueness.

"Better have a wash and some breakfast," said Jimmy. "Lil'll be down in a minute. Let me take you upstairs."

But the distracted look was still in George's eyes.

"Telephone," he said briefly.

"Sure, right in here," Jimmy led the way.

"I want to get the manager of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in New York," George Banks told the operator. There was fuss and waiting; interminable waiting, during which George Banks paced the rug and smoked Jimmy Sayre's cigarettes, Egyptian though they were. His host asked questions, but George was unable to give coherent answers. After a while the connection with New York was ready.

"Is this the manager? ... Well, I want to speak to somebody who has charge of the guests' mail.... Yeah.... All right, listen! I mailed a letter from Chicago night before last. Addressed to Miss Mildred Trudeau and marked Hold for Arrival.... Miss Mildred Trudeau. Mildred.... Yeah, Trudeau. That's right.... Now, I want that letter destroyed--destroyed, torn up, thrown away.... Yeah....

"What? Oh, don't be dumb. I wrote the letter, I tell you! It isn't the guests' mail unless the guests get it.... Yeah, but I wrote it; can't I have you destroy it if I want to? ... How do you know? How do you know anything? _Do you_ know anything? Of course I wrote it. How'd I know you had it if I didn't write it? ... Don't be dumb. Why can't you----"

The conversation continued a minute or two and came to a snappy conclusion when George Banks gave the Ritz gentleman certain specific directions as to where to go.

George jiggled the receiver hook and got the long-distance operator on the line again. He told her to get him the office of the White Star Line. Again there was a pause of minutes and again the telephone was ready with New York.

"Hello! White Star Line? Is the _Majestic_ docking this morning? ... She has, you say? What time? ... What time is it now? Do you suppose most of the passengers are still on the pier? ... Don't be fresh! I'm asking you for information. Is there any possibility of reaching one of the passengers by telephone? ... By telephone.... Yeah, I might better run down to the pier myself--in pajamas, from Boston. Sure, that's a good idea, too! I'm asking you if there's any chance of reaching one of the passengers by telephone. Is there? ... You're sure? ... No way at all, eh? All right. Thanks."

With a gesture of finality, George Banks put the receiver on the hook.

"Well, Jimmy, I've done all I could, haven't I?"

Jimmy Sayre, who had not the faintest idea of what it was all about, thought it was best to agree.

"It looks as though you had, Phooey."

"Thank you," said George Banks.

Again he placed the receiver at his ear and asked for long-distance. There was the shadow of a smile on his face.

"Long-distance, old dear. I'm awfully sorry to break in on your morning like this," he said. "I hope it isn't too much trouble....

"Will you please get me Great Neck, Long Island, one-one-six-one? ... Yep.... And ask for Miss Barbara Kittridge."

ARABIAN KNIGHTS

_By_ Octavus Roy Cohen

OCTAVUS ROY COHEN

One of the long-distance records for magazine publication of a series of stories is held by Octavus Roy Cohen, who was born in Charleston, S.C., on June 26, 1891, and who was a civil engineer, a newspaper man, and a lawyer before, in 1915, he gave his time exclusively to writing. The series of humorous negro stories centered about Florian Slappey which have appeared for years in the _Saturday Evening Post_ has provided a succession of diverting books with no less diverting titles--_Polished Ebony_, _Highly Colored_, _Assorted Chocolates_, _Black and Blue,_ etc.

"Arabian Knights," which is of this lineage, was first published in _Photoplay_.

In justice to Mr. Cohen the reader may be reminded that he is not a writer in a single vein. _The Crimson Alibi_--afterward made into a highly successful play--was his novel, and his negro stories have been interspersed with detective and mystery tales. In general his other fiction is of the type rather loosely called "dramatic"; and Cohen is famed among editors for his extraordinary gifts as a contriver of plots. Lately this gift for situation and the "O. Henry twist" has gained him a fresh reputation as the author of dramatic, highly compressed stories told in not more than a thousand words.

ARABIAN KNIGHTS[1]

[1] Copyright, 1926, by Octavus Roy Cohen.

J. Cæsar Clump, director-in-chief for the Midnight Pictures Corporation, Inc., of Birmingham, Alabama, reclined in a hammock and gazed languidly down upon the city of Algiers. He was engaged in the task of whipping his brain into a subjective state, in order that he might more efficiently consider a new story idea suggested that morning by Forcep Swain, Midnight's elegant author.

Physical conditions were ideal. He was surrounded by the vivid vegetation of the hotel gardens. Overhead the sun streamed warmly from an unflecked sky. Through the iron grill of the garden gates he could see the narrow, winding streets of Mustapha Superieur, fashionable suburb of Algiers: and far below the harbor stretched--all sapphire and burnished gold, studded with small and picturesque ships: fishing boats with queer, triangular sails; decrepit tramp steamers from Gibraltar, Marseilles, Venice, Naples, Genoa and North African ports; one tremendous liner stopping over in Algiers for a day in the course of a world cruise.

He extracted from his pocket a package of American cigarettes, liberally besprinkled with Algerian revenue stamps. He selected one, lighted it, and luxuriously inhaled the rich Virginia tobacco. He raised his putteed legs from the ground, settled them comfortably in the hammock, removed a checkered cap, and closed his eyes in order to give his thought processes the benefit of full physical comfort.

And then his superb serenity was shattered by a crashing in the shrubbery and a hoarse voice bellowing his name. Director Clump sat up and stared with ill-concealed hostility toward the sound.

"Mistuh Clump!" came the harsh, masculine call: "Hey, Cæsar! Where is you at?"

The director sighed and shook his head. Always when he slipped away for an hour of undisturbed thought, there was something to destroy his tranquillity. And usually it was this same person.

He waited resignedly until the enormous figure of Opus Randall, Midnight's most popular comedian, burst through a hedge of flowers and confronted him.

Mr. Randall was hot, tired, and indignant. His massive chest was heaving with exertion, his pudgy face was beaded with perspiration, and his fat legs trembled.

One glance at the face of the leading actor, and Director Clump knew that peace had departed for the afternoon. There were times when Opus was trying beyond the point of endurance--and this was one of the times. Cæsar Clump assumed a resigned look, waved a languid hand, and voiced a question.

"Well, Opus--wha's eatin' you now?"

Mr. Randall came close and hovered over the recumbent figure, upon which he gazed with ill-concealed hostility. His voice quivered with fury.

"Wha's the matter? Huh! That you could lay down there an' ask me such!" He doubled one big fist and spanked it into the palm of the other hand. "I reckon you know as well as me wha's the matter."

"Well, if you know an' I know--then us bofe knows, an' there ain't no need talkin' about it."

"Gittin' sarcastical, is you? Just like you been doin' ever since us fust come to Africa. You think you can talk to me like that--an' ride me all the time when us is workin'--an' gimme dirty work to do. I's good an' sick an' tired of it, an' I ain't gwine stan' it another minute."

"What does you aim to do?" inquired the director. His tone was smooth, but anger was commencing to smolder within the narrow bosom.

"Plenty!"

"What, f'r instant?"

Opus spluttered. He choked. He knew very well there was nothing he could do--but he hated to be reminded of that fact. Director Clump saw his opportunity and was quick to press the advantage.

"Now listen at me, Fat Boy. Ever since us left Bumminham you has been makin' trouble. Nothin' ever suits you. Always you is fightin' with Florian Slappey or Welford Potts or Aleck Champagne--or somebody. An' now you comes bustin' in on my solichude yellin' 'cause I has been givin' you some funny scenes----"

"Funny? Great Sufferin' Tripe! Who says they is funny? You reckon it's funny fo' me that you should chuck me overboard fo' some fishermen to pull up in a net ... an' then a dawg-gone octopus gits in that net with me an' I is almost drowned an' besides also scared to death? I guess you think I just laughed myse'f sick, don't you? An' was it funny I should fall down them stone steps in the native quarter this mawnin'? Why di'n't you tell me there was a rope across that street?"

Mr. Clump explained patiently. "I wanted the fall to look nachel."

"Ooooow! So that's it? An' you takes a chance of bustin' me all up! A lot you care does I crack my neck. Why don't you give Welford Potts some of them terrible things to do? Why is it always me, me, me when it comes to gittin' beat up?"

Mr. Clump rose and his voice crackled. "Stop! You quit kickin' an' listen at me! I craves to make somethin' plain to yo' fat head--once an' fo' all time. You signed up with this comp'ny to play slapstick comedy. You is a comedian an' tha's all what you is. But ev'ything you gits tol' to do, you raises a howl. What do you think you is, anyhow--a tragedian? Wantin' to play _Hamlick_ or somethin' like that? Now I'se finished, th'oo and done with you. I has exhausted my temper an' next time you do any of this yellin' aroun' you gits fined an' laid off without sal'ry. Git that clear. I has tried to keep fum havin' trouble with you. I has let you buzz aroun' like a crazy hawssfly ... but I'se finished. You ain't nothin' but a straw an' I is a camel's back. I has done broke! Now--git!"

Opus stared intently at his chief. It was the first time he had ever seen the immaculate little man aroused to a high pitch of ill humor and instinct warned him that Mr. Clump had been exasperated to the absolute limit of his endurance. Opus was no fool. He swung around with what dignity he could muster and crashed away through the flowers and palms. He assumed a grand manner, but he knew that his bluff had been called--and he boiled with rage.

Mr. Randall wished to convey the impression that he accepted the dictum of his director. He wished Mr. Clump to lower his guard in order that the force of Opus's retaliating blow might be unimpaired. Mr. Randall vowed vengeance! And, what was more, he knew precisely how he intended wreaking it.

He moved through the luxurious gardens in search of a particular person. He found her in a tiny palm grove, sipping tea and eating little cakes. She was a slender and attractive creature of undoubted strength of character. Opus bowed low.

"Good evenin', Mis' Clump."

"Evenin', Opus. How is you this evenin'?"

"Tol'able, thank you." He seated himself opposite, and yawned. "Algiers suttinly bores me. Nothin' to do an' heaps of time to do it in."

Mrs. Sicily Clump smiled. "Reckon you must be the only bored pusson in the Midnight troupe, Opus."

"How come? Ain't Cæsar bored?"

"My husban'?" She gestured in negation. "Nossuh, he showly ain't. He says this is the finest town fo' pitchers we has found since we come abroad. All day he wuks an' at night he goes out an' gathers material."

"Oh! he does?" Opus eyed her speculatively and tried to make his question casual. "Is he goin' out tonight?"

"Showly."

"Where?"

"Down to the water front to watch the ships an' git ideas. Him an' Florian Slappey is goin'."

Mr. Randall emitted a large and raucous laugh, and Mrs. Clump leaned forward.

"What at is you laughin', Brother Randall?"

"Nothin', Mis' Clump. Nothin' at all--'cept that a lady which has been ma'ied to a man as long as you has, should b'lieve such fumadiddles."

"You mean my husban' ain't gwine to no water front? You mean you know where him an' Florian is really goin'?"

"Uh-huh." Mr. Randall drummed on the table-top. "Now you mind, Sicily--I ain't tryin' to start somethin'. But I happen to know that where Cæsar an' Florian really is goin' is down to a Arab dancin'-girl place on a li'l alley right off that Rue de la Kasba we seen the other day."

Sicily smiled. "Tha's where you is wrong, Opus. The place what you mention, Florian an' my husban' went to las' night with my permission."

"Aaah! An' they had such a good time with them cullud dancin' ladies that tonight they goes back without tellin' you they is doin' such." Opus rose ponderously. "Sicily, what you ain't got in you' haid is no brains."

He retired in excellent order, leaving Sicily Clump sitting straight up in her chair, eyes focused upon a tangerine. She knew instinctively that Opus had spoken the truth, and her wifely wrath was beginning to mount.

Reviewing the events of the past week, it seemed as though her husband and Florian had been unnaturally zealous in their hunt for filmable material. Last night Cæsar had told her frankly that he wished to visit a hall where Algerian girls performed Arab dances. His frankness disarmed her, and she gave her permission. But if, tonight, he was returning to the dance hall and concealing his intention of doing so--then she felt that it behooved her, as a lawfully wedded spouse, to do something.

Mr. Randall was thoroughly satisfied with the start he had made. He knew Sicily was no bungler. He realized that she would proceed carefully--and to the complete eventual discomfiture of the dapper director who persisted in making Opus's life one misery after another. Meanwhile he seated himself on the ground with his back against an orange tree and lost himself in thought. A peaceful smile played about his lips and until a voice broke upon his ears he was unaware of another's presence in the vicinity.

"What is you so happy about, Opus?"

Mr. Randall looked up at the trim little figure of Edwin Boscoe Fizz, Midnight's second director. Mr. Randall frowned. He resented the imputation that he was happy.

"I'se mis'able!" he snapped. "Entirely an' completely unhappy."

"How come you is smilin', then?"

"Just got to fool people. 'Fraid if I don't smile, folks will stop thinkin' I'se a comedjin. But my heart ain't smilin', Eddie--it's bustin'."

Mr. Fizz seated himself beside the portly actor. "Shuh! Opus, that ain't no way to talk. S'pose you tell me what's wrong?"

Mr. Randall was quite willing to unburden himself. "I showly wisht you was my director, Eddie--instead of that uppity, strutful Cæsar Clump. What I think of that feller----"

Eddie Fizz stiffened. "Quit talkin' that away, Opus. Cæsar Clump is the fondest man I is of."

"Well, I ain't gwine be yo' rival. You is a better man than him an' a better director. Was you handlin' me, you woul'n't be doin' me the dirty tricks he is."

"Like what, f'rinstance?"

Opus unfolded his worries and laid them out before the eyes of Eddie Fizz. But somehow, Eddie failed to agree with him, even though he was sympathetic. Soft-heartedness was one of Eddie's greatest shortcomings. "I think you takes things all wrong, Opus," he volunteered. "Wasn't you such a good actor, you woul'n't git so much rough stuff to do. An' you is lucky to have such a swell director as Cæsar----"

"Piffles! That slice of tripe! That----"

"You cain't call him out of his name befo' me!" Eddie had risen and was confronting the infuriated Opus with aggressive loyalty.

"I reckon I can. I ain't quarrelin' with you, Eddie. I like you fine. But I has got my 'pinion of Mistuh Julius Cæsar Clump an' there ain't nobody gwine change me. N'r neither I ain't no pusson to sit back idle an' git stepped on. Cæsar has insulted me, an' when I'se insulted I fights! I'se gwine make that feller wish he hadn't never been bawn. I'se gwine----"

"Is you threatenin' him?"

"Tha's the one thing I ain't doin' nothin' else but!"

Mr. Fizz turned away. "I cain't listen to you no mo' then, Opus. Us is friends, but Cæsar is mo' friendlier with me than you, so I bids you a respective good evenin'."

Opus stared after the slim figure. He liked Eddie--couldn't help liking the modest, inoffensive little man whose genius for comedy had elevated him to his present important post over the handicap of a shy, sensitive disposition. But he resented Eddie's loyalty to Cæsar Clump.

What if Clump had worked with Eddie and taught him all he knew? What if Eddie had attained directorship through handling Sicily Clump when her husband failed? Gratitude was one thing, but Opus felt that Mr. Fizz carried it to the point of insanity.

As for Eddie Fizz, he was considerably worried. He discounted Opus's threats, of course. Opus was always threatening somebody. He was an inveterate trouble maker, the single member of the Midnight troupe possessing a violent case of temperament. But, just the same, it was well for him to know--as Cæsar's stanch friend--that there was somebody in the organization who bore him ill-will.

A low whistle was wafted to his ears. He traced it with his eyes and saw that it came from the lips of the elegant Mr. Florian Slappey. Florian leaned out of the window and called softly.

"Hey, Eddie--come up to my room a minute."

Mr. Fizz obeyed. He mounted the stairway and entered the bare little cubicle which Mr. Slappey occupied in solitary state. Then his eyes fell upon the other occupant of the room.

"Hello, Cæsar."

"Howdye, Eddie."

Florian dropped an affectionate hand on Eddie's shoulder and spoke beatifically. "Man! where Cæsar an' I was las' night!"

"That dancin'-girl place?"

"Uh-huh!" Florian rolled his eyes. "Hot diggity dawg!"

J. Cæsar Clump chuckled. "How 'bout you goin' back there with us tonight, Eddie?"

Mr. Fizz frowned. "You goin' back there?"

"Tha's the most thing we is aimin' to do."

"But Cæsar--how come Sicily lets you return to a place like that?"

Mr. Clump laughed loudly. "Shuh! Eddie, she don't know nothin' 'bout it. She thinks I an' Florian is gwine be gallivantin' aroun' the water front lookin' fo' lit'ry material."

"No!"

"Yeh. Golla! she woul'n't dream of leavin' me go to see no Algiers dancin' girls a secon' time. Once was bad enough. So I an' Florian framed this story an' right away she says all right we can go. Now we was thinkin' that you would have the time of yo' life.... Boy! until you has visited that place, you ain't been nowhere an' you ain't seen nothin'. How 'bout it?"

Eddie shook his head. "Nothin' stirrin', Cæsar. Glorious woul'n't never say yes."

"You ain't got to 'splain ev'ything to yo' wife, has you?"

"Uh-huh. Us promised each other that."

Florian grimaced. "What good is a wife if you cain't break promises to her? C'mon, Eddie--be a good sport."

"Cain't make it, boys." He stared at Cæsar thoughtfully. "Anybody but me know where you-all is goin'?"

"I don't reckon so."

"Well, don't tell nobody then."

Cæsar smiled affectionately. "Ol' Sad Face! Why not?"

"'Cause ev'body in this comp'ny ain't yo' friend, Cæsar. An' was Sicily to find out where you was at----"

Both men whistled expressively. Eddie wished them luck and went his way. Once out of the room Florian and Cæsar looked apprehensively at each other.

"What you reckon he meant, Florian?"

"Talkin' 'bout Opus Randall, mos' prob'ly. He's hatin' you plenty in the las' few days."

"He don't know nothin' 'bout this trip tonight, does he?"

"Showly not." There was the faintest quiver of doubt in Florian's voice. "Co'se I guess there's some in the comp'ny suspecks where we is gwine. We done a heap of talkin' this mawnin' an' Opus might of heard."

Mr. Clump's eyes narrowed hostilely. "If that fat slab of side-meat ever tol' my wife on me.... But shuh! we ain't doin' nothin' but borryin' trouble. Sicily don't suspeck nothin' an' us is gwine have the time of our lives."

Mr. Slappey grinned hugely. "Chief, when you said that you show spoke a parabola!"

At three o'clock that afternoon a party of three, consisting of Director Clump, Cameraman Exotic Hines and Author Forcep Swain, left the hotel on a tour of inspection. They were seeking locations for certain important comedy shots and were intent on business.

Mrs. Sicily Clump stood at her window and watched them go. They moved off down the Rue Michelet and passed from sight. Immediately Sicily swung into action.

She descended to the hotel gardens and quested for the company's official Algiers guide. She found him chatting amiably with two taxi drivers.

M. Fernand Boutierre was a decidedly estimable gentleman. His credentials were unimpeachable, as President Orifice R. Latimer had taken very good care to see after a certain thoroughly disastrous experience in Biskra.

Fernand was of medium height and modest structure. In complexion he was of that doubtful mahogany tinge which marks the native Algerian. Born and reared within the corporate limits of the sprawling, hilly city on the north African coast, Fernand had learned to speak French fluently. Later he had picked up bits of English from tourists and then had seriously studied the language until now it was his proud boast that he spoke it as good as a native.

A large tourist bureau had recommended Fernand without qualification. He was licensed by the police and they asserted that he was familiar with everything in Algiers from palace to pest-hole. He spoke on terms of respectful intimacy with officials and wharf-rats. Proprietors of two large halls where boule and baccarat flourished knew him well, and there was no iniquitous establishment in the city which was not eager to welcome him and his clients.

His chief recommendation was that wherever he chose to guide a person--there that person was safe. Being a native Algerian, he held high social rank among his kind. French shopkeepers and entertainment purveyors catered to the man.

Sicily Clump knew Fernand well, and liked him. She opened the interview by pressing in his hand a crisp, new hundred-franc note, realizing that this made of Fernand her stanch ally--unless somebody happened to come along with more than a hundred francs.

She spoke earnestly and lengthily with M. Boutierre. At first he raised his hands in horror and shook his head violently. Once he offered to return her hundred francs. But Mrs. Clump was insistent. He spoke of risks and she volunteered to assume them. He told her he dared not jeopardize his very excellent position with Midnight, and she promised protection: she gave her word that he was to be merely an innocent bystander. And at the crucial instant of his indecision, she produced a second hundred-franc note.

Fernand was converted. Much against his better judgment he consented to put himself at her disposal. She then proceeded to speak more specifically and a half hour later the somewhat doubtful M. Boutierre boarded a tram for down-town, there to seek the native clothing shop of a very good friend. Frankly, Fernand regarded it as a very silly proceeding--entirely too much ado about nothing at all. What if this woman's husband cared to visit--for the second time in two nights--an irreproachable dancing establishment? Fernand shrugged. The mental ways of these American women were quite beyond him. Why, the place was so respectable that he frequently took tourist ladies to watch the dancing ... invariably to their disappointment. Native Algerian dances lack considerable of the paprika which seasons the famous French can-can.

Shortly before the dinner hour Fernand returned from the native quarter with a large bundle and a suggestion. He had surveyed the situation from every angle and finally made it quite clear to Sicily that he would take her to the dancing place only on condition that some colored gentleman in the company should accompany them. This, Fernand felt, would leave him in the clear should things go wrong.

Much to his amazement, Sicily did not protest. In fact, she instantly and heartily endorsed the idea and immediately went in search of Opus, whom she found staring down miserably upon the Mediterranean Sea.

Opus demurred. It was one thing to start the ball rolling, and quite another to trot along with it. Sicily used powerful argument, and eventually Opus consented to accompany them to the dance palace.

"But," said he, in qualification of his agreement, "I ain't gwine in. I goes downtown in the taxi with you-all, but when we gits to that place, I waits outside."

"Why?"

"You is gwine be disguised. I ain't. Minute I go in, Cæsar an' Florian reckernizes me ... then the whole scheme goes blooie. Ain't that the truth?"

"Yeh ... seems so."

"'Tis so. You don't wan yo' husban' to know you is there. An' with me waitin' outside, he won't know nothin'."

"Good enough. Now, you keep yo' eyes open this evenin', Brother Randall, an' as soon as Cæsar an' Florian starts downtown you hunt me up."

Dinner that evening was a gala affair. There was unusual jocularity and good nature, most of the laughter emanating from J. Cæsar Clump, Florian Slappey, Sicily Clump, and Opus Randall. The first two stood upon the threshold of a glorious evening, Sicily was determined that any lurking suspicion on the part of her husband should be allayed and Opus was chuckling inwardly at the thought of the revenge he was about to take.

Mr. Randall was, as a matter of fact, in fine fettle. His deep voice boomed across the room. He fairly oozed high spirits. Personally unpopular as he was, the others were laughing with him--all save Director Edwin Boscoe Fizz, whose mild little eyes turned inquiringly upon the fat comedian. Mr. Fizz felt that there must be something sinister behind Opus's abrupt climb from the nadir of unhappiness to the zenith of jocularity.

By the time dinner ended, night had settled over Algiers in a rich, purple mantle. The sky was cloudless and spangled with stars. From the hotel veranda one could look down upon the sprawling city; the wide, tree-sentineled streets of the French quarter, the white houses and mosques in the native section. The panorama was weirdly beautiful in the moonlight.... Cæsar and Florian took their leave and, as long as they remained within earshot, discussed loudly the sort of pictorial material they hoped to discover on the proposed tour of the congested and malodorous water front.

Less than fifteen minutes after their departure, Sicily Clump answered a tap on her door. She took from M. Boutierre a sizable bundle, and talked with him briefly in subdued tones. She closed the door and started to dress.

Less than twenty minutes after that, Mrs. Sicily Clump, feminine star of Midnight productions, surveyed herself in the mirror. The reflection showed an Arab lady of unusual shapeliness, encased in a long, flowing robe of white. The head was completely covered and the lower half of her face was concealed by a white veil. Only the eyes shone forth ... and they were twinkling with a mixture of excitement and anger.

Sicily was well content. "Cæsar woul'n't never know me," she observed to her reflection. "In fack, I ain't so sure I'd reckernize myself."

She tapped on the door as a signal to Fernand, who was waiting in the hall. He entered and exclaimed rapturously, declaring that even an Algerian would mistake her for a native. He then bade her wait, while he inspected the narrow hall leading to the side door.

He returned in a few moments. Sicily took his arm, gathered her Arabian robe about her, and they slipped down the stairway, along the dark hall and thence into a taxi which was waiting outside. Opus was already there. He was enthusiastic. "Golla! Sicily--how moslemmed up you is!"

She smiled. "You is sure that they ain't nobody saw'n us?"

"Positively not. I been standin' heah waitin' an' nobody but the taxi driver ain't been near heah."

Mrs. Clump was satisfied. But neither she nor Opus knew of the loyalty which had aroused the suspicions of Eddie Fizz, nor of the determination with which he had shadowed Opus Randall since dinner.

Eddie had missed no move of Opus since the conclusion of that meal. He felt that something was brewing--and when Mr. Randall posted himself by the side door of the hotel, Mr. Fizz scrooched himself in the shadow of a nearby palm tree--and watched.

What he had just seen appeared to more than justify such pains as he had taken. First there had been Opus standing alone--expectantly. Then the figure of Fernand Boutierre appearing briefly, speaking a few words with the large actor; then beckoning with his right hand. At once, as though it had been waiting for this particular signal, a taxicab rolled out of line, and came to a halt near where Mr. Randall was standing. Opus immediately entered.

Fernand reëntered the hotel. He appeared again a few seconds later accompanied by a modestly veiled Arab woman. This couple joined Opus in the taxi and the vehicle rolled down the driveway toward the gate of the hotel grounds.

Eddie Fizz stepped out of the shadow of the palm tree. The Arab woman puzzled him. Then his mind flashed back over the episodes and apprehensions of the afternoon, and a great light broke upon him. He clapped his hands together and his eyes blazed.

"Ow!" he murmured, "what a dirty trick!"

His legs twinkled upstairs to his room, where he found his wife, Glorious. He spoke jerkily.

"Don' ast me no questions, honey; an' don't say nothin' to nobody no time. But Cæsar Clump is in trouble, an' I has got to git him out."

Mrs. Fizz patted his hand. "Go ahead, Eddie. I ain't gwine to say nothin', an' I won't repeat myse'f."

He was gone as abruptly as he entered. He shot out of the front door like a slender, black arrow and pitched himself into a taxi. He motioned the driver into the Rue Michelet and gestured toward the town below. Wild contortions indicated to his driver that he desired speed and plenty of it.

They started toward the lower town at a breakneck rate, twisting this way and that, coming now within sight of the harbor, and again being hemmed in by high walls surrounding handsome homes. Eventually there appeared far ahead of them another car in the rear of which Eddie could discern the veiled and hooded figure of the woman he believed was Sicily Clump. In his very worst and most painstaking French he explained to the driver that he wished the other taxi trailed--but not too closely.

Their way led through the French quarter; a section of wide streets and imposing shops--very much like any city of France. Then they turned to the left and progress was slower. The streets narrowed, seeming to close in upon them. They rose sharply, buildings lost individuality ... they found themselves in a twisting, tortuous maze of narrow cobblestoned alleys. The native quarter was picturesque, but not prepossessing. Lights glowed palely--intensifying the outer darkness; the streets were crowded with burnoosed Algerians moving with slow indifference, or merely squatting against the stucco walls and gazing with some hostility and considerable distaste toward the taxi. It was a silent section of the city; sinisterly quiet; narrow; treacherous....

Meanwhile in the leading taxi, Sicily Clump was wondering whether she had allowed wifely indignation to vanquish common sense. In broad daylight the native quarter had attracted her. Now, she felt herself oppressed by vague fears. She fancied that she detected criticism in certain native eyes--as though they were asking what a veiled Algerian lady was doing in a taxi-cab with an American negro and a native guide.

Even the bazaars, so intriguing in the daytime, were pale and uninteresting tonight. The ineffective lights glowed weirdly on the white walls ... and there were blocks where there was no light at all; merely scores of ghostlike figures moving soundlessly in the night.

Sicily regretted the trip, but now that she had come this far she had no intention of turning back. Her resentment against her husband was flaming. It was all his fault! What right had he to force her to trail him down here!

"Is we near the place, Fernand?"

"Ver' near quite, madame. Almost are there."

She sighed. "Remember, Fernand--if I should be reckernized we is just gwine say that I was studyin' for a part I'se gwine play in a Arab pitcher, an' that I made you bring me heah."

"Madame is correct. For Arab part she desire to see Arab dance so Fernand is delight' to escort, _n'est-ce pas_?"

"_Oui--oui!_" broke in Opus, "we gotcha, Fernand."

Their taxi moved with difficulty along the Rue Babel Oued, a populous street urgent with color, odor and life. In the center, and flanking both sides, were tiny shops displaying odds and ends: nondescript garments, bits of glassware, pieces of filmy silk, ragged and worthless rugs, squares of gaudy, imitation tapestry. Halfway along this narrow, pulsing thoroughfare they came to the corner of the Rue de la Kasba, where the Eglise Notre Dame des Victoires gleamed whitely in the moonlight. An ancient mosque of impressive dimensions and architecture, it affected Sicily Clump with a bad case of creeps.

But even more impressive was the narrow street they swung into after proceeding a few squares upgrade along the Rue de la Kasba. This was indeed the narrowest street they had yet traversed, and just as Sicily was on the point of reconsidering, the taxi stopped and Fernand announced that they had arrived.

The house before which they stood was more impressive than its somewhat squalid neighbors. It was of strictly Moorish design with an ornate entrance. Fernand instructed the taxi driver to keep his headlights burning until after he and Sicily had entered the house. Opus settled himself comfortably in the rear of the car and wished the others much luck.

Obviously Mr. Fernand Boutierre was well known in this particular establishment. The girl at the door smiled a greeting and gazed with casual curiosity at the figure of the veiled woman. Fernand walked ahead and Sicily followed, her heart thumping.

They came into a large room, perhaps twenty feet wide by forty in depth, across the width of which benches had been placed. But the second floor of the building did not form a ceiling to the room. Instead, a balcony circled the hall about sixteen feet above the first story, and leading off from this balcony were several ornately carved doorways.

At the lower end of the hall was the stage: a simple platform raised perhaps two feet from the floor. On this stage were dancers and orchestra. As Sicily and Fernand seated themselves in a dark, obscure corner where they could not be recognized the orchestra sounded off. It performed this feat without undue formality. One portly Algerian lady played deftly on an instrument resembling a flageolet, another scraped earnestly at a sort of fiddle. And the drummer drummed.

The drummer fascinated Mrs. Clump. For one thing, he seemed to be the only man connected with the enterprise; for another, he was a man of striking proportions. Probably six feet in height and correspondingly broad; with a vast chest and huge, muscular arms, he sat cross-legged in the middle of the stage and thumped with the fingers of both hands on the end of a huge kettle covered with tightly-stretched hide. The effect was inspiring: thumpy-thump-thump-thump! Thumpy - thump - thump - thump! Thumpy-thump ... over and over again, marking time for the flageolet and fiddle.

The drummer seemed disinterested. His black eyes were unseeing, his dark-complexioned face inscrutable. He did not even look around when a young Arab lady, introduced in French as an Ouled Nail dancer from Biskra, arose and commenced to strut her stuff.

The dance, as such, was vastly disappointing, even to Sicily. This particular young woman was as fully dressed as her dozen sister performers who sat stolidly on the floor of the stage awaiting their turn. She wore an ornate blouse, baggy trousers, a few beads and a sort of veil. As she moved, the others clapped languidly, keeping time to the thumping of the gargantuan drummer.

The dancer moved slowly and indifferently. If there was any intricacy in the steps, Sicily could not detect it. To her untutored eyes the lady seemed to be performing about one-quarter of a desultory daily dozen. She walked up and down the stage a few times, smiled, bowed--and seated herself. At which signal another lady--equally bored and languid--arose.

But now Sicily turned her gaze from the stage, and her eyes came to rest on the figures of her truant husband and his friend.

It was obvious that J. Cæsar Clump and Florian Slappey were enjoying themselves hugely. They were sitting straight up in their chairs paying rapt attention to the modest undulations of the dancer then holding the boards. Once or twice they broke into spontaneous applause ... and it was then that Mrs. Sicily Clump commenced to become angry in earnest.

She eyed them balefully through her veil. Once Cæsar looked straight at her. For an instant she feared detection, but he turned away disinterestedly. What mattered it to him that an Arab woman desired to see the dancers?

Two or three more numbers were performed, the giant thumper thumping steadily. Then Sicily saw her husband and Florian rise. They beckoned to the overlarge and overdark woman who seemed to be the proprietress and there ensued a difficult but evidently satisfactory conversation in French. Florian and Cæsar started for the door.

Sicily half rose from her seat, intending to confront her husband. But just as she would have started forward, Cæsar turned back toward the stage. The smile which he flung at the girls seemed to include them all, and he waved a cheery hand toward the fat duenna.

"So long, girls," called Cæsar gaily. "See you-all a li'l later!"

Sicily sank back in fury. So he was coming back later, was he? She was quivering with righteous wrath as she watched them disappear through the front door. Once they had gone she swung violently on her guide.

"Fernand," she hissed, "you heard my husban' say just now he was comin' back, didn't you?"

"_Oui_, madame."

"Well, I crave to have you take me up yonder on the balcony. Then when him an' that wuthless Florian Slappey return back heah, I can watch what they does, an' they won't see me."

Fernand shrugged. He was under orders and receiving excellent pay. If a wife chose to act this way... He escorted Sicily up the twisting stairway leading to the balcony. Once there, Mrs. Clump took matters in her own hands.

She arranged two chairs where she and the guide might sit and gaze down onto the first floor without themselves being observed. To make assurance doubly sure, she borrowed an ornate Moorish screen from an adjoining room and placed this in front of the chairs. Then, firm-lipped and bright-eyed, she settled herself to wait until such time as Julius Cæsar Clump paid his return visit.

Meanwhile, another chapter in the drama was being enacted in the terrifyingly dark side street on which the dance house was located.

Mr. Edwin Boscoe Fizz was loyally on the job.

The task of trailing Sicily's taxi had not been simple, but eventually Eddie's chauffeur parked a block away from the spot where the other taxi was standing. Eddie commanded the man to extinguish his lights. Then the little director stepped to the ground and pussyfooted up the alley toward the waiting car.

He was unobserved. The Stygian gloom of the alley afforded excellent protection and he came quite close to Sicily's car. There, in the glow of a light over the doorway, he saw the figure of the large and smug Opus Randall perched comfortably in a corner, a large cigar in his teeth.

Eddie stood motionless, observing Opus--and thinking. Sicily and Fernand were inside, he knew. If Cæsar was already there, then the rescue was too late. If not ... Eddie took up his place in the shadows of a building and waited, prepared to intercept Cæsar in case he had not already arrived.

The door of the big Moorish house opened and in the pale yellow light of the entry, two masculine figures stood revealed. At the same instant a bit of melancholy music spurted into the street: the thump of drum and wail of _derbuka_. Eddie frowned in puzzlement. Sicily was inside, and Cæsar was leaving. Obviously he had not been confronted by the irate wife.

Cæsar and Florian started down the street. Opus Randall made himself as inconspicuous as possible. And Eddie Fizz--hestitating to accost his friends in full view of Opus--slunk along in the shadows until they turned a corner. He accelerated his pace and whistled softly. They turned in surprise.

"Well, if it ain't ol' Eddie Fizz! Coul'n't stan' the gaff! Dawg-gone yo' ol' hide----"

"Cease!" commanded the mild little man. "Cæsar--you is up to yo' neck in trouble."

Mr. Clump chuckled. "Boy! you says words but they don't convey no inflammation. I asks you, How come?"

Eddie stepped close. "Was there a Arab lady sittin' in the dance place back yonder?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well," snapped Eddie, "there wasn't!"

"Huh? Be yo' age, boy. I seen the Arab lady----"

"You didn't do no such of a thing. The lady you seen which you thought was Arab, was Sicily Clump!"

There was an instant of hushed and bleak terror. Then doubt gripped the husbandly heart of Mr. Clump and questions cascaded from his lips. Briefly and graphically Eddie explained the situation and the sinister role in which Opus had cast himself. The eyes of Mr. Clump blazed with homicidal fury and he suggested that they immediately repair to the alley and start the evening right by completely exterminating Mr. Randall--a suggestion which Florian enthusiastically seconded.

Eddie restrained them. "When time comes fo' beatin' up that no-good ol' buzzard," he said, "I'se gwine he'p, an' he'p a-plenty. Any man which would do what he has done ain't wuth plantin' lilies on. But meanwhile, Cæsar, you got mo' impawtant things to consider. In the fust place, you got to conwince Sicily that you ain't gallivantin'."

"Hmph!" mourned Clump, "is that all?"

"'Tain't hard! Where yo' brains is at, feller? Now listen: Sicily seen you in there an' you was behavin' proper. You says yo'se'f that you tol' the lady you-all was comin' back. Undoubtlessly, Sicily is waitin' fo' you to do same. All right: You an' Florian goes back an' I goes with you. You go in an' talk loud about how bored you is an' how you wish you was home with yo' wife. An' you makes loud speechments about you got to go on down to the water front an' git material. Sicily heahs all that, an' she don't know you know she's there an' right away she sees she's done you injustice an' gits sorry. Maybe she don't even leave you know she is there, but goes back to the hotel instead. Then you comes in about an hour fum now an' goes right to her an' says, 'Honey, I an' Florian had to go back to that dance place fo' a few minutes, but it was awful.' That puts you all clear and makes things happy."

Director J. Cæsar Clump was staring pop-eyed at his friend.

"Eddie," he declared solemnly, "you ain't no man! You is simply a genius!"

The trio marked time for perhaps ten minutes. Then, filled with high purpose, they returned to the dance house. Clump rapped on the door and they were admitted. They moved through the ill-lighted hallway into the large room. At sight of them the music of drum and flageolet and _derbuka_ immediately commenced and one of the Algerian ladies rose and commenced to undulate.

Wearing masks of innocence, the three gentlemen strode down the aisle. Cæsar surveyed the room out of the corners of his eyes. Then he stopped short and whispered uncertainly to Eddie Fizz.

"Eddie--where Sicily is at?"

From her post of vantage on the balcony, Mrs. Clump saw the three men glance affrightedly about the hall. But she did not hear the conversation.

"I dunno, Cæsar."

"She coul'n't of gone out, could she?"

"No. Nobody come out of heah, an' besides, wasn't Opus still sittin' outside in his taxi?"

"Then what----"

Florian Slappey had been gazing about with increasing fright. He clutched Mr. Clump's arm. "Cæsar--s'pose they 'scovered she wasn't no Arab lady an' done somethin' terrible to her?"

Genuine terror smote Mr. Clump. It was one thing for him to come down with his friend and enjoy a bit of dancing--and quite another to have his wife abducted.

And so--in this hour of danger--Mr. Clump became a very grim and determined man. He was convinced that Sicily was somewhere in the house, and he determined to know where--and to know promptly. His manner as he advanced to the stage was surcharged with hostility which those on the stage sensed.

Mr. Clump and his associates found themselves in a quandary. No one in the place could speak a word of English, and he knew practically no French. But a mere discrepancy in language could not affect his determination to save the fair Sicily from whatever trouble might have befallen her.

"Madame," he rasped, "_ou est mon femme?_"

The stout woman shook her head. On the balcony Sicily inquired of Fernand what Cæsar had said.

"I cannot comprehend way up here," answered M. Boutierre. "Also I do not know whether Mr. Clump speaks the French or the English."

"That's French," snapped Sicily.

Fernand shrugged. "I do not say. To me it sounds like English."

Cæsar was trying again. His voice barely carried to the balcony. "_Mon femme est ici,_" he asserted with decidedly American accent. "_Je demander ou est elle a!_"

The stout lady gestured hopelessly. Sicily again inquired of her guide what Cæsar was saying.

"I do not know, madame. The words they may be French but the sound is English and the meaning is absent."

Cæsar turned helplessly to Florian Slappey.

"You is smart, Florian--you try. An' tell her us ain't to be fooled with."

Mr. Slappey spoke without hesitation. "_Femme!_" he announced. "_Très bon femme! Vous cacher ou? Vous respondez_ or we _est_ going to staht somethin'. _Comprez?_"

The woman did not comprez. Neither did the bewildered Fernand on the balcony. "If they would not talk French!" he wailed. "I can speak French and therefore I cannot understand what they say."

Cæsar was glaring hostilely at the proprietress. To his way of thinking, both he and Mr. Slappey had spoken clearly and perfectly in French. It was inconceivable that they should not be readily understood. Therefore he believed that her look of blankness was affected to trick him.

Mr. Clump tried again. He raised his fists and shook them in the startled face of the fat Algerian lady. French verbs and nouns and adjectives tumbled all over the room. Nobody understood what he was saying, but it was obvious that he was exceedingly wrathy and on the verge of precipitating trouble.

From the back of the stage the large gentleman uncoiled himself and ostentatiously placed his drum on the floor. Standing, he seemed even more formidable than when seated. His more-than-two-hundred pounds of sinew moved forward and hovered over the irate Cæsar.

He spoke in his native tongue. The words fell softly as snowflakes, but the eyes were level and cold. Ordinarily, the three colored gentlemen from Birmingham would have retreated in more or less good order, but now--confronted by the possibility of genuine danger to Sicily--no such thought entered their heads. Cæsar returned stare for stare.

"You long-drawed-out cracklin'!" he observed scathingly. "Thinkin' you can scare us!"

He stepped away and motioned the others into a conference. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"They is prob'ly holdin' Sicily prisoner," he announced. "I'se gwine find her, an' it'll take the whole Algiers army to stop me--let alone that tall boy. Is you-all with me, or does you crave to beat it befo' the action stahts?"

Florian hitched his belt together. "Reckon if you is boun' to git kilt, you could use a li'l comp'ny."