The White Mice Part 6

When Roddy invited the two merchants to join them Von Amberg thanked him politely and explained that his table was already laid for breakfast. With another exchange of bows the two gentlemen continued up the twisting path and disappeared among the bushes.

"_That's_ what I mean!" exclaimed Roddy approvingly. "Now they are _our_ people. They have better manners, perhaps, than we have, but they're sensible, straight-from-the-shoulder men of business. _They_ aren't spying on anybody, or sending black-hand letters, or burying old men alive in prisons. If they saw a revolution coming they wouldn't know what----"

He was interrupted by the sudden reappearance of the men of whom he spoke. They were moving rapidly in the direction of the gate, and the countenance of each wore an expression of surprise and alarm. While his companion pa.s.sed them quickly, Mr. Von Amberg reluctantly hesitated, and, in evident perplexity and with some suspicion, looked from one to the other. The waiter had placed the coffee and bottles of cognac and of curacao upon the table; and Roddy hospitably moved a chair forward.

"Won't you change your mind," he said, "and try some of the stuff that made this island famous?"

In spite of his evident desire to escape, Von Amberg's good manners did not forsake him. He bowed and raised his hat in protest.

"I--I should be very pleased--some other time," he stammered, "but now I must return to town. I find to-day it is not possible to breakfast here. There is a large party--" he paused, and his voice rose interrogatively.

"Yes," Roddy replied with indifference. "We found them here. They took all the waiters away from us."

The nature of the answer seemed greatly to surprise Von Amberg.

"You--you are not acquainted with those gentlemen?" he inquired.

In the fas.h.i.+on of his country, Roddy answered by another question.

"Who are they?" he asked. "Who is the one whose health they are all the time drinking?"

For an instant Von Amberg continued to show complete bewilderment.

Then he smiled broadly. For him, apparently, the situation now possessed an aspect as amusing as it had been disturbing. He made a sly face and winked jovially.

"Oh! You Americans!" he exclaimed. "You make good politicians. Do not fear," he added hurriedly. "I have seen nothing, and I say nothing. I do not mix myself in politics." He started toward the gate, then halted, and with one eye closed whispered hoa.r.s.ely, "It is all right.

I will say nothing!" Nodding mysteriously, he hurried down the path.

Peter leaned back in his chair and chuckled delightedly.

"There go your sensible business men," he jeered, "running away! Now what have you to say?"

Roddy was staring blankly down the path and shook his head.

"You can subpoena me," he sighed. "Why should they be afraid of a birthday-party? Why!" he exclaimed, "they were even afraid of _me_! He didn't believe that we don't know those Venezuelans. He said," Roddy recapitulated, "he didn't mix in politics. That means, of course, that those fellows are politicians, and, probably this is their fas.h.i.+on of holding a primary. It must be the local method of floating a revolution. But why should Von Amberg think we're in the plot, too?

Because my name's Forrester?"

Peter nodded. "That must be it," he said. "Your father is in deep with these Venezuelans, and everybody knows that, and makes the mistake of thinking you are also. I wish," he exclaimed patiently, "your father was more confiding. It is all very well for him--plotting plots from the top of the Forrester Building--but it makes it difficult for any one down here inside the firing-line. If your father isn't more careful," he protested warmly, "Alvarez will stand us blindfolded against a wall, and we'll play blind man's buff with a firing-squad."

Peter's forebodings afforded Roddy much amus.e.m.e.nt. He laughed at his friend, and mocked him, urging him to keep a better hold upon his sense of humor.

"You have been down here too long yourself," he said. "You'll be having tropic choler next. I tell you, you must think of them as children: they're a pack of cards."

"Maybe they are," sighed Peter "but as long as we don't know the game----"

From where Peter sat, with his back in their direction, he could not see the Venezuelans; but Roddy, who was facing them, now observed that they had finished their breakfast. Talking, gesticulating, laughing, they were crowding down the path. He touched Peter, and Peter turned in his chair to look at them.

At the same moment a man stepped from the bushes, and halting at one side of Roddy, stood with his eyes fixed upon the men of the birthday-party, waiting for them to approach. He wore the silk cap of a chauffeur, a pair of automobile goggles, and a long automobile coat.

The att.i.tude of the chauffeur suggested that he had come forward to learn if his employer was among those now making their departure; and Roddy wondered that he had heard no automobile arrive, and that he had seen none in Willemstad. Except for that thought, so interested was Roddy in the men who had shown so keen an interest in him, that to the waiting figure he gave no further consideration.

The Venezuelans had found they were too many to walk abreast. Some had scattered down other paths. Others had spread out over the gra.s.s. But the chief guest still kept to the gravel walk which led to the gate.

And now Roddy saw him plainly.

Owing to a charming quality of youth, it was impossible to guess the man's age. He might be under thirty. He might be forty. He was tall, graceful, and yet soldierly-looking, with crisp, black hair clinging close to a small, aristocratic head. Like many Venezuelans, he had the brown skin, ruddy cheeks, and pointed mustache of a Neapolitan. His eyes were radiant, liquid, brilliant. He was walking between two of his friends, with a hand resting affectionately on the shoulder of each; and though both of the men were older than himself, his notice obviously flattered them. They were laughing, and nodding delighted approval at what he said, and he was talking eagerly and smiling.

Roddy thought he had seldom seen a smile so winning, one that carried with it so strong a personal appeal. Roddy altogether approved of the young man. He found him gay, buoyant, in appearance entirely the conquering hero, the Prince Charming. And even though of his charm the young man seemed to be well aware, he appeared none the less a graceful, gallant, triumphant figure.

As Roddy, mildly curious, watched him, the young man turned his head gayly from the friend on his one side to address the one on the other. It was but a movement of an instant, but in the short circuit of the glance Roddy saw the eyes of the young man halt. As though suddenly hypnotized, his lips slowly closed, his white teeth disappeared, the charming smile grew rigid. He was regarding something to the left of Roddy and above him.

Roddy turned and saw the waiting figure of the chauffeur. He had stepped clear of the bushes, and, behind the mask-like goggles, his eyes were fixed upon the young Venezuelan. He took a short step forward, and his right hand reached up under his left cuff.

Roddy had seen Englishmen in searching for a handkerchief make a similar movement, but now the gesture was swift and sinister. In the att.i.tude of the masked figure itself there was something prehensible and menacing. The hand of the man came free, and Roddy saw that it held a weapon.

As the quickest way to get his legs from under the table, Roddy shoved the table and everything on it into the lap of Peter. With one spring Roddy was beside the man, and as he struck him on the chin, with his other hand he beat at the weapon. There were two reports and a sharp high cry.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Under the blow, the masked man staggered drunkenly.]

Under the blow the masked man staggered drunkenly, his revolver swaying in front of Roddy's eyes. Roddy clutched at it and there was a struggle--another report--and then the man broke from him, and with the swift, gliding movement of a snake, slipped through the bushes.

III

Roddy stood staring blankly, unconsciously sucking at a raw spot on his finger where the powder had burned it. At his feet the bottle of curacao, from which he had just been drinking, was rolling upon the gravel path, its life-blood bubbling out upon the pebbles. He stooped and lifted it. Later he remembered wondering how it had come there, and, at the time, that so much good liquor had been wasted had seemed a most irritating circ.u.mstance.

He moved to replace the bottle upon the table and found the table overturned, with Peter, his clothes dripping and his eyes aflame, emerging from beneath it.

Further up the path the young Venezuelan was struggling in the arms of his friends. Fearful that he might still be in danger they were restraining him, and he, eager to pursue the man who had fired on him, was crying aloud his protests. Others of his friends were racing down the different paths, breaking through the bushes, and often, in their excitement, seizing upon one another. Huddled together in a group, the waiters and coachmen explained, gesticulated, shrieked.

But above the clamor of all, the voice of Peter was the most insistent. Leaping from a wreck of plates and gla.s.ses, his clothing splashed with claret, with coffee, with salad dressing, with the tablecloth wound like a kilt about his legs, he jumped at Roddy and Roddy retreated before him. Raging, and in the name of profane places, Peter demanded what Roddy "meant" by it.

"Look at me!" he commanded. "Look what you did! Look at me!"

Roddy did not look. If he looked he knew he would laugh. And he knew Peter was hoping he would laugh so that, at that crowning insult, he might fall upon him.

In tones of humble, acute regret Roddy protested.

"I did it, Peter," he stammered hastily. "I did it--to save you. I was afraid he would hit you. I had to act quickly----"

"Afraid _he'd_ hit me!" roared Peter. "_You_ hit me! Hit me with a table! Look at my new white flannel suit! And look at this!" With his fingers he gingerly parted his wet, disheveled hair. "Look at the b.u.mp on the back of my head. Is _that_ your idea of saving me? I wish," he exploded savagely, "I wish he'd shot you full of holes!"

The violent onslaught of Peter was interrupted by one hardly less violent from the young Venezuelan. He had freed himself from his friends, and, as it now was evident the man who had attempted his life had escaped, and that to search further was useless, he ran to thank the stranger who had served him. Extravagantly, but with real feeling, he wrung both of Roddy's hands. In the native fas.h.i.+on he embraced him, shook him by the shoulders, patted him affectionately on the back.

Eloquently but incoherently in Spanish, French and English he poured forth his thanks. He hailed Roddy as his preserver, his _bon amigo_, his _brav camarad_. In expressing their grat.i.tude his friends were equally voluble and generous. They praised, they applauded, they admired; in swift, graceful gestures they reenacted for each other the blow upon the chin, the struggle for the revolver, the escape of the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin.

Even Peter, as the only one who had suffered, became a heroic figure.

It was many minutes before the Americans could depart, and then only after every one had drunk to them in warm, sweet champagne.