Chapter XXII

Becker awoke on the morning of the seventeenth with the sense that he had a hard day’s work before him. He was a thoroughgoing agnostic, and he did not fancy the task of informing Saadi that his mother was dead. The proper man to tell such news was Deland. At least, he wanted Deland around when the operation was performed.

He bathed and dressed, and went to Deland’s bedroom. That youth was yawning, but not yet risen.

“Deland, you can’t go to college to-day. I want you here.”

Deland shied a pillow at him. “Get out, you husky brute. Soon as the Doctor goes away, you’ve got to boss me.”

“Well, turn it around then. I want you to stay at home and boss me. I’m in trouble.”

“I should worry. I’ll be in trouble myself if I don’t get to quiz this morning. Did it never occur to your lop-sided senior cerebrum that we aren’t all vamoosing the ranch in a few weeks?”

“Deland, are you religious?”

“Well, in a weak and feeble way, I guess so. What’s the matter?”

“Saadi’s mother is dead.”

Deland emitted a long whistle, arose from bed, stripped off his pajamas, and began to splash his six feet of leanness, so that the sprinkled Becker hastily retired into the study.

In five minutes the Yankee emerged, still damp from his ablutions.

“Tell me about it.”

Becker narrated the whole affair. Then they went together to Saadi’s room, but Saadi was absent, and his bed had not been occupied save by the sleek cat “Jaffer.” Then they went out to breakfast together, and on returning, took up their position in Saadi’s study. The news had driven all thought of work from Deland’s mind. He brought in his mandolin and strummed minors on it as they waited.

It was ten o’clock before Saadi appeared. Deland was playing a tune called “I’m just a-wearyin’ for you,” and Saadi sat down to listen. Nobody said good morning, and Deland played on till the tune was finished. But “Jaffer” came out and rubbed himself against Saadi’s ankles and finally jumped upon his shoulder.

“It is beautiful piece, Deland Chucklehead. Was Becker telling you about pig of Jew?”

“Yes, old man, I know the whole business.”

“Well, Becker, it was no letter from papa with apology.”

“No, Saadi.”

“Becker is awful sober this morning. But I told him it would be so. My mother told me my father would never send. She is wise woman. My mother is wisest and best woman in Bokhara. All people call her Ila Lala, which is Ila the Blessed. Poor people have about my mother a song.”

He began in his softest voice to chant, but stopped suddenly.

“It is wonderful! Still they sing, though she lives not now in Bokhara. She is in Troitsky near Tashkent.”

“Old man,” said Deland, “have you heard recently from your mother?”

“Yes, I had letter with money week ago to-day. Friday is good luck day for Moslems, even if wandering kids go not in mosque.”

Saadi opened the drawer of his desk and lifted a neat package of square blue envelopes. He took the top letter, sat down, and murmuringly ran it over, stroking the cat as he did so.

“Does she speak of her health, old man?”

“She is well. My mother would always be well if my father would be kind to her. Listen here, Deland. Here is joke in mamma’s letter. ‘I am not allowed to eat sweetmeats, because doctor says they make gas press on my heart. But it is not gas which presses on my heart—it is happy bahlul of other days.’ It is little joke with tears in it, for bahlul means spirit; Ameen would understand. Poor mamma, to make joke with tears in it.”

“Saadi kid—I can’t throw any airs about your being a prince and all that, I ain’t used to it yet—but say, boy, don’t you know that tears always lie close to jokes? We never know when sorrow is coming our way.”

Saadi stared. “What is matter, Deland Chucklehead? Is this another Bogumil prayer-meeting? Do not be gloomy with me. I am gloomy enough. I wish I could once again see mamma, and you will make me cry. In letter she says, ‘Come home to me—it is not necessary to come through Russia.’”

“Oh, gee, old man, I’ve got something to say to you, and I don’t know how, because I’ve been through it myself and it just knocks you over when you hear it. I wish you were a Christian, it would be so much easier.—I’m terribly afraid you won’t ever see your mother alive again.”

Saadi turned violently, and the cat fell to the floor. “Do not carry joke too far.”

“It is no joke. Becker had it from your father’s agent.”

“If he had it from Rosenvine, it is sure no joke. It is damn lie.”

At the same moment, however, he began to tremble. He arose and paced the room, his teeth chattering. “It is lie. Can’t you see through lies, you two chuckleheads? My father says to pig of Jew, ‘Tell him his mother is dead; that will bring him.’ I will go now and kill Rosenvine.”

Saadi dashed into his bedroom, emerged with a formidable revolver, and snapped it open to be sure it was loaded. But before he had got the barrel back into place, Deland made a football slide which caught him in the knees, and Becker had the gun out of his hands.

“We don’t like to rough-house you, old man, but we can’t let you go off your trolley, you know.”

For answer, Saadi threw himself on the floor and grovelled like a madman. The cat scrambled out of the way and retreated to the bedroom. Weeping, choking, rolling, the man seemed totally bereft of his senses. The other men did not know what to do. Becker sat quietly in Jaffer’s arm-chair, Deland stood gazing down on the maniac. The two of them were strong enough to tie him, but would that help matters?

Deland, of course, was depending entirely on Becker’s judgment. But if Saadi’s hypothesis was correct, Rosenvine’s message was the last refinement of cruelty.

The force of the attack spent itself in a few minutes, and Deland helped Saadi to the leather couch, where he lay in comparative silence, occasionally muttering to himself.

Lunch time came. Deland had telephoned down to Wu, and Wu now appeared with a smoking trencher of soup, and rice, and vegetables, and a plate of pork chops. Saadi stared at him in silence. The situation was different from that first situation, eight months before.

But Wu held up the salt-cellar and said exactly what he had said on the former occasion—“Not pink, like salt of Karshi, but equally good for purposes of friendship. Also I have brought souvenirs of the Stock Yards—fourth to sixth lumbar inclusive.”

Saadi sat up, pressing his hand to the back of his head. Trench had radiographed that neck and found the vertebræ intact, but the emotions of the morning had brought back the old pain.

“Mr. Wu, you are gentleman and mandarin and good judge of liquor. I will leave instructions in will for descendants to go easy with all little Wus when war comes.”

Wu departed without asking questions, and the three men essayed the meal. It was Wu’s supreme culinary effort, for he had easily guessed that Saadi was in some serious trouble, and his undemonstrative good-will took the only form it was permitted to take. Saadi touched nothing except the soup, but saw to it that Deland ate the chops.

After his soup, Saadi lighted a cigarette. Apparently it gave his brain a fillip, for presently he exclaimed, “It is all clear what to do. It was clear all time, only I was crazy. I will cable old man in Tashkent who was once servant of House. He cannot read or write, but he will find help, and he will send me true word about mamma.”

“Good business, old man! You’ve got the best bean of the bunch after all.”

Becker said nothing. He was waiting for an answer to his own wire.

Saadi wrote his message, telephoned for a District Telegraph boy, and counted out the money for message and answer.

“Deland, play more on mandolin. Sing something funny.”

Deland tuned up and twanged Jaffer’s favourite song:

“Oh, du lieber Halsted Street, Halsted Street, Halsted Street,
Oh, du lieber Halsted Street, alles ist hin!
Magd is weg, Geld is weg, alles weg, alles weg—”

“That is enough,” interrupted Saadi. “That is German. Also it is about money which I am short of, and girl which—is verboten. Play American tune.”

Deland played “Old Kentucky Home,” and Saadi listened appreciatively. “It’s fine. It is what makes boys go in war. When you want to raise army in America, play Kentucky Home in all brass bands. How did Balkans send such big army against Turkey? I was in hospital corps and I have seen. It was always Kentucky Home. Especially it was brothers. In Balkans, brothers are dearer than fathers, and sisters are dearer than wives. Oh, yes, much dearer.”

“That’s queer,” said Deland.

“Man is queer animal, Deland. He lives in many places besides Halsted and Salem. He has swept over world like accidental fire of slow combustion. And among hills of Balkans, man lives for brothers. Man swears to be elective brothers. Becker knows about that—he asked me sarcastic am I not pobratim with pig of Jew. When army smashed Turks at Kirk Kilisseh, did it yell, ‘Lick damn Turks for love of Cross?’ It did not. Whole battalion heard one kid named Jivan was captured. Every damn Serb yells out, ‘Go in after Jivan!’ And they went in, by golly, and came back with Jivan, but only few of battalion came back with him. I saw Jivan in hospital. He was little sawed-off-son-of-gun. Why should whole damn battalion die for little sawed-off-son-of-gun? No reason. They were pobratims with Jivan.”

“Awfully interesting,” said Deland, glad to see Saadi back in his old vein—too glad to protest against the volley of oaths.

The messenger boy came and took Saadi’s message and money, but still Becker and Deland stayed on, unwelcome guests. Becker had the big revolver in his pocket, but there were others in Chicago, and Becker was taking no chances.

They made him talk more about his hospital experiences. They made him sing a Servian song which he thought he remembered, though he broke down and could not carry it through.

It began,

“Shto Morava moutna tetche,
Da li Pasha konye poyie
Il Pashina voyska brodi?”

When they asked him to translate, he said, “Why does Morava flow all bloody? Why do not Pasha’s horses drink it? Why do not his soldiers cross it? It was sisters who were bathing. It was soldiers who were killing. Poor Todora lay there bloody. She was dead, but lips were speaking. ‘Dearest sister, Olivera, tell our mother not to sorrow. Say to her that I am married. Say a big stone is my bridegroom.’”

“I guess you like those folks pretty much, old man.”

“Yes. It was best people in world. They were gentle and brave. They did not make impersonal war-machine like German army. They fought for brothers and sisters. When they swore oaths, they did not break. They loved their mothers, too. Oh—”

Saadi was wringing his hands and walking up and down the room.

Deland racked his brain for something comforting, but his brain was mostly full of statistics such as he had shown Saadi at their first meeting. Finally he blurted out,

“What’s the percentage of illegitimacy in the Balkans?”

“Zero, Deland.”

Becker himself looked surprised. “Is that a fact? Russia is Slav, and our percentage is therefore low—only about twenty-seven in the thousand, where Germany has ninety, and Austria a hundred and forty. But I didn’t suppose—”

He broke off and answered a knock at the door. It was that of an A. D. T. boy, with a message for himself. Becker broke the seal. The note was in German, to the following effect:

Mr. B. Rosenvine begs to inform Mr. Becker that he has this
minute received wire from Tashkent office of Vasi that a
message was received signed “Becker” requesting confirmation
of news of death of Princess Ila. Tashkent office instructs
Mr. Rosenvine to inform Mr. Becker that in accordance with
instructions received from the House, it cannot communicate
with strangers. All information may be had from the agent of
His Highness.

Mr. Rosenvine regrets that he does not seem to command the
confidence of Mr. Becker. Under the circumstances, Mr.
Rosenvine is leaving Chicago this afternoon by the Pennsylvania
Limited Express. Up to five o’clock Mr. Rosenvine’s offer
will hold good. He now has in hand the sum of three thousand
dollars, American currency, which he will despatch to Dr.
Trench or Mr. Becker, for the use and benefit of His Highness
Agri, on receipt by telephone of Agri’s promise to proceed
without unnecessary delay to Tashkent. The message need not be
telephoned by His Highness personally. Mr. Becker’s word will
be sufficient.

Becker read it through twice. There could not be the slightest doubt that Saadi’s mother was dead, or that money was ready for him if he would take it. Becker laid the open message on Saadi’s desk, as Saadi had laid the message of the day before upon his own.

Saadi picked it up and read it. Then he crumpled it into a small wad, and went into his bedroom. They heard the iron bed sing out sharply as he threw himself upon it. They heard the muffled choking. They looked at each other helplessly.

Ten minutes went by. It was three o’clock, and time was flying. “He’s got to call the man up,” said Becker. “We may as well tackle him.”

“Wait a minute, Beck.”

Deland picked up his mandolin, and softly played Kentucky Home once more. Then he changed the key, and began to sing the song he had been humming when Saadi arrived:

“Just a-wearyin’ for you,
All the time a-feelin’ blue—”

He sang the song through softly, went into the bedroom, and sat down beside his unhappy friend.

“Did you hear me hitting up the music, old man?”

No answer. Saadi’s face was hid in the pillow, and “Jaffer” was purring beside it.

“Do you know what I think, old man? I think your illustrious old dad is lonesome for his wandering kid. I think he’s just a-wearyin’ for you. And I’ll bet he’s a-wearyin’ for her too. He may not have done the right thing—and he’s proud, because he has had too much power. But you are his boy and her boy. Think of it. We want you just to take your nose out of that pillow and say yes. Becker will pass the word along, and your Ikey at the Congress will shuck out the simoleons, and we will let him fade away on the Pennsy. The doctor will be home Monday morning, early, and you can wait and say good-bye. We’ll see you off in grand style, and brag about you for the rest of our natural lives. Be a good kiddo.”

Saadi answered nothing, but he lifted his tear-stained face from the pillow and slowly got up. He walked into the study, and Becker thought that the day was won. But Saadi merely locked the door leading into the hall and put the key in his pocket.

That was the end of Rosenvine and his propositions. The three men sat there till half-past five—the time at which the Jew’s train departed—and nobody said a word. Saadi pretended to be reading the encyclopedia. Becker looked out of the window. Deland gnawed his fingernails and reflected on the difficulty of bringing the unregenerate soul to Christ.

At half-past five there was a knock. Saadi unlocked the door and Wu handed him the evening paper. “Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. Will the Triumvirate eat with us?”

Nobody answered. Saadi was glancing at the paper. “Jivio! Good for Mitchell,” he remarked. “Mayor of New York did just miss to join line of assassinated pigs, Wu. It was damn shame to try to kill good man like Mitchell.”

“Who tried, Mr. Sereef?”

“Oh, Irishman, of course. If Irish or Slav cannot be king, he wishes nobody to be king. Good night, you Chuckleheads.” He took his hat, bowed profoundly to Wu, and went out.

Presently Jaffer’s room was deserted, but for “Jaffer” on Jaffer’s bed.