I felt like punching the cad’s nose, but Uncle Naboth laughed good naturedly and nodded approval.
“That’s businesslike an’ to the point,” said he. “Take the money, Sam, and give our passenger the proper receipt.”
I did so, and Archibald Ackley, Jr., stalked away down the dock to fetch his baggage from the hotel.
To my surprise the Gonzales made the harbor that afternoon and anchored alongside us. I promptly hid the trembling Joe in my cabin and locked him up; it proved a wise action because Captain Marrow lost no time in boarding us and asking for an interview with Captain Steele.
This made me nervous, for I knew my father would not lie under any circumstances, and I dreaded the result of the ugly Mexican’s visit. So I stood beside my father to make every possible endeavor to save my protege from recapture.
“Cap’n Steele, sir, where’s my cabin-boy?” asked Marrow, gruffly, as he came up and touched his cap.
My father looked him over with grave attention.
“Cap’n Marrow,” he replied, sternly, “where’s that calf that broke out’n my ten-acre lot three year ago come next Sunday?”
Marrow muttered a curse and glared at us evilly.
“I happen to know, Steele, that my boy Joe, who was tryin’ to vamoose, stole a rotten dinghy an’ rowed out to the Seagull the night afore you sailed. Ain’t thet so?”
“Mebbe,” said my father.
“Then I demand him in the name o’ the law, an’ I’ll hold you here in the bay till you give me back the stolen goods,” continued Marrow, savagely.
“Ned,” said my father, turning quietly to his brawny mate, “show Cap’n Marrow over the side, an’ if he’s too slow in goin’, toss him overboard.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” returned Ned, pleasantly.
“I’ll hev the law, remember! You can’t sail from the harbor till you’ve given up my property!” roared the exasperated Mexican.
“Mebbe,” repeated my father, again, as he turned indifferently away.
But I saw trouble brewing and resolved to head it off.
“Captain Marrow,” I said, politely, with a motion to Ned to delay his intention, for the mate’s hand was lifted to seize the fellow in his terrible grip, “please allow me to explain this case. A boy—perhaps it was your runaway—did indeed board us at Chelsea, as you say; but my father, Captain Steele, did not discover his presence until we were at sea. Then we were obliged to carry him on here, where he was put upon the dock. I assure you I saw him bolt for the land as fast as he could go.”
This was true in fact, as I had sent Joe on an errand. I did not relate, of course, that the boy had quickly returned, but my tale seemed to impress Marrow and explain why Captain Steele had so recklessly sneered at his demands, as if wilfully defying the marine law. “If you make haste, sir,” I continued, very courteously, “you may still be able to lay hands on the boy, who I am sure has no money to take him any distance from Philadelphia.”
Marrow looked at me shrewdly.
“Did Joe say anything about me, or about money?” he asked.
“Not a word, sir,” answering the last question. “But I advise you to make haste. And you must forgive Captain Steele for his abrupt answers, caused by what he considered the insolence of your demand and the knowledge that you are in the wrong in threatening to hold his ship. You know, sir, it would cost you heavily to do this, when the court found you were unable to prove your case.”
This argument decided the man. He swore a nasty oath and stamped his foot in futile rage; but he at once left the ship to be rowed ashore, and that was the last we saw of him.
Still I wondered at his interest in the miserable, half starved boy he had so wickedly abused; and I wondered at his strange question about money. There must be some mystery about Joe.
At seven o’clock, all being snugly stowed and the last of our fresh provisions taken aboard, we hoisted anchor and headed out toward the mouth of the bay. Our passenger had settled himself in a spare cabin an hour before, having brought with him two huge “telescopes” that appeared to contain all his belongings.
I did not let Joe out of his confinement until about midnight, and when from the swish of the water against our sides I knew we had reached the open sea.
It is useless to relate the unimportant incidents of our voyage to Gibraltar and up the Mediterranean. The Seagull behaved beautifully in both good and bad weather, amply fulfilling our most ardent expectations. It is true the voyage was unnecessarily long, since with our powerful engines we could have cut down our time to less than one-half; but we were obliged to concede this to Captain Steele’s prejudice in favor of sailing, and the breeze held so steady and persistent that we cut the waves like a clipper and made a most remarkable sailing record for the voyage.
It was not until we passed Sicily that the Seagull was required to prove her staunchness. The waves at the lower end of the Mediterranean were wilder than any I had ever before encountered, but our beauty rode them like a swan and never a seam spread nor a beam so much as creaked.
The voyage, however, served to make us better acquainted with both our boy passenger and my boy assistant—the rich man’s son and the runaway Joseph—though this acquaintance was not ripened without some interesting experiences.
A more willing or grateful follower no one could have than Joe Herring. The kindly treatment accorded him was in such sharp contrast to the dog’s life he had led aboard the Gonzales that he was anxious to show his appreciation on every possible occasion. His dark eyes followed me affectionately wherever I went, and he would leap quickly to anticipate my every order. Also he liked to serve Uncle Naboth and my father, and proved so considerate of their wishes and comforts that he soon won their hearts completely. Nor was Joe so frail as he seemed at first glance. His muscles were hard as iron and on occasion his thin frame developed remarkable strength. This he proved conclusively within the first week of the voyage, as you shall hear.
Our young passenger, whose imposing name we had quickly shortened to plain “Archie,” seemed likely to cause us unsuspected trouble. He at once developed two bad habits. The first was to sit on deck, lolling in a folding deck chair he had brought aboard, and play distressing tunes upon a harmonica—which he termed a “mouth-organ.” The lad must have had a most powerful inherent love for music to enable him to listen to his own awful strains; but it was clear his musical talent was not developed, or at least not properly educated to any artistic degree.
The first morning out the Captain, forced to listen to this “music,” scowled and muttered under his breath but forbore to interfere with the passenger’s evident enjoyment of his own performance. The second morning he yelled at Archie to “shut up!” but the boy calmly disregarded the order. The third morning my father stumped over to where I sat and ordered me to take away Archie’s “blamed ol’ jew’s-harp” and fling it overboard.
I had myself been considerably annoyed by the wretched music, so I obeyed so far as to stroll over to our passenger and ask him to kindly discontinue his performance.
He looked up resentfully.
“This is the passenger’s deck, ain’t it?” he demanded.
“We have no passenger’s deck; but we allow you to sit here,” I replied.
“Then leave me alone, and mind your own business,” he retorted. “I’m a free born American citizen, and I’ve paid my passage and can do as I please.”
“But you can’t annoy everybody with that beastly music while you’re aboard the Seagull,” I answered, rather nettled at his attitude. “We also have rights, sir, and they must be considered.”
“I’ve paid for mine,” he said. “You get out, Sam Steele. I know what I’m doing,” and he commenced to play again.
I looked at him reflectively. Just how to handle such a situation puzzled me. But Joe stood just behind and had heard all. With a bound of amazing quickness he was upon the unprepared Archie, seized the mouth-organ from his grasp and flung the instrument of torture far over the side.
“Beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure,” he said, with a grin.
Archie whistled softly and looked his assailant over. He rose slowly from his chair and, still whistling, began to unbutton his coat and take it off. He folded it neatly, laid it in the chair, removed his linen cuffs and placed them beside his coat, and proceeded deliberately to roll up his sleeves.
The youth’s intentions were so obvious that I was about to order Joe to go below, as his slight figure seemed no match for the burly Archie, when a pleading look in the boy’s eyes restrained me.
Uncle Naboth and Ned Britton, who had been promenading the deck near, had noted the incident and now paused to see its outcome. Some of the sailors also were interested, from their distant posts, while my father stood on the bridge and looked at our little group with an amused smile lighting his rugged face.
Altogether it would not do to retreat in face of the coming fray, or to interfere with the logical outcome of Joe’s rash act. The Yankee boy’s face was white and set, and his soft whistle only rendered his bull-headed determination to exact revenge the more impressive.
Having rolled up his sleeves, doubled his great fists and swung his arms once or twice to ease his muscles, Archie advanced steadily upon poor Joe, who stood listlessly with his hands thrust in his coat pockets and his head and shoulders bent slightly forward, in his accustomed pose.
“That mouth-organ cost two dollars,” said Archie, grimly, “and you don’t look as if you’re worth two cents. So I’ll just take it out o’ your hide, my son, to teach you a lesson.”
With that he paused and swung his right fist upward, and Joe, roused to action at last, gave a sudden bound. My eye could scarcely follow him as he leapt at Archie, embracing him and clinging to his antagonist like a vise. To my astonishment, the bulky Yankee swung around, tottered and fell heavily upon his back, with Joe kneeling triumphant upon his breast.
We all gave an admiring cheer, for we could not help it, and at the sound Joe arose and stood in his place again, meekly as before.
Archie got up more slowly, feeling the back of his head, which had whacked against the deck. He made a sudden rush and a lunge with his fist that might have settled Joe had he not dodged and closed again on his adversary with the same lightning tactics he had at first employed. They fell in a heap, and although Archie tried to keep Joe hugged to his breast the latter slid away like an eel and a moment after was on his feet and had assumed his careless, waiting pose.
When the Yankee got up this time he was again softly whistling. Without a glance at his late antagonist he deliberately rolled down his sleeves, attached his cuffs and resumed his coat. Then he walked over to Joe and with a smile that showed more good nature than chagrin he held out his bulky hand.
“Shake, sonny,” said he. “You’re good stuff, and I forgive you everything. Let’s be chums, Joe. If I could have landed on your jaw I’d have mashed you like a turnip; but you wouldn’t let me, and so I’m bound to give in gracefully.”
That speech was the best thing the boy had done, and my original dislike for him began to evaporate. Joe shook the proffered hand cordially, and my father, who had come down to join our group, gave Archie an admiring buffet on the shoulder and said: “You’ll do, my lad.”
But after all Joe was the hero of the occasion, and we all loved him for the clever and skillful fight he had put up. Archie was an expert boxer, as we afterward discovered, but Joe’s talent for wrestling gave him a decided advantage in a rough-and-tumble encounter.
At luncheon we were all in a hearty good humor, but imagine my dismay to hear shortly afterward the strains of a mouth-organ coming from the deck! I ran up at once, and there sat Master Archie in his chair, blowing furiously into an instrument fully three inches longer than the one Joe had tossed overboard.
I laughed; I could not help it; and even my father’s face wore an amused smile. Joe looked at me inquiringly, but I shook my head and retreated to my cabin. Such a queer condition of mutiny deserved careful thought.
But, as I said, Archie had another bad habit. He smoked cigarettes in his stateroom, which was against our most positive rules. The first time we observed from the deck thin smoke curling through the open window of Archie’s cabin, a hasty investigation was made and the cause speedily discovered. The boy was lying in his berth, reading a novel and coolly puffing his cigarette.
Uncle Naboth sent for the passenger and gravely informed him he’d have to quit smoking cigarettes in his cabin.
“On deck it don’t matter so much,” added my uncle, “though a decent pipe is a more manly smoke, to my notion. But we’ve put a furtun’ into our new ship, an’ can’t afford to take chances of burnin’ her up on the first voyage. Cigarettes are dangerous. If you throw a lighted stub into a corner we may go up in smoke and perhaps lose many vallyble human lives. So we can’t allow it, young man. Smoke yer paper cigars on deck, ef ye want to; but don’t light another in yer cabin.”
Archie made no promise. He listened to my uncle’s lecture, and walked away without a word.
An hour later I saw smoke coming through the window again, and peering through the aperture discovered Archie lying in his bunk, calmly smoking. The boy was exasperatingly stubborn. I called black Nux and gave him an order. With a pleased grin the South Sea Islander brought a length of fire hose, attached it to a plug in the sruppers and carried the nozzle to Archie’s window. Presently we heard a yell as the powerful stream struck the smoker and completely deluged him. He leapt from his berth, only to be struck full in the face by the water from the hose, which sent him reeling against the door. I shut off the water, and Nux, kneeling at the low window, looked down on the discomfitted Archie and exclaimed:
“Goodness sake, Mars Ackley! were dat on’y you-uns? Thought it were a fire, sure thing. Beg pard’n, Mars Ackley!”
After the boy changed his drenched clothing for dry he came on deck and stalked around in silent anger while Nux went to the cabin and cleared it of the water and wet bedding. I wondered if the lesson would be effective, but could not judge a nature that was so unlike any I had ever before encountered.
Bye-and-bye Archie calmed down sufficiently to drop into his deck chair and begin playing his mouth-organ. He wailed out the most distressing attempts at tunes for an entire hour, eyeing defiantly any who chanced to look toward him; but we took care not to pay the slightest attention to his impertinence. Joe came to me once with a pleading look in his eye, but I shook my head sternly. The sailors were evidently amused by our little comedy forward, for I could see them exchanging smiles now and then when a screech more blood-curdling than usual came from the mouth-organ.
Archie tired himself out in time and went below. He closed and locked his window and began again to smoke in his cabin. In half an hour the smoke was so thick in the little room that we could see nothing but its gray clouds through the thick pane.
The set frown upon my father’s face told me trouble was brewing for our passenger, but as yet the Captain forbore to interfere. Uncle Naboth came to me indignant and angry and demanded to know what should be done to the “young pig” whose actions were so insolent and annoying.
“Let me think,” I replied, gravely. “We must certainly conquer young Ackley in some way, even if we have to toss him overboard; but I hope it will not come to that.”
“Then think quick an’ to the point, Sam,” rejoined my uncle; “for I’m jest achin’ to wollop the fool wi’ a cat-o’-nine-tails.”
At dinner Archie joined our table, silent but with a sneering and triumphant look upon his face. He was not handsome at any time, but just now his damaged face was positively disagreeable to behold. It occurred to me that the trouble with the young fellow was that he had not been taught to obey, and doubtless he imagined we were his enemies because we were endeavoring to prevent him from doing exactly what he wanted to. His idea of being a “free-born American citizen” was to be able to override the rights and privileges of others, and the sooner he got that notion out of his head the better it would be for him.
Archie was a deliberate eater and remained at the table with a sort of bravado because we took not the slightest notice of him. So I left him finishing his meal when I went on deck.
A few minutes afterward, however, he came bounding up the companionway with a white face and rushed up to where Uncle Naboth and I were standing.
“I’ve been robbed!” he cried, shaking his big fist at me. “My cabin’s been entered by a thief, and I’ll have the law on you all if you don’t restore my property!”
“What have you lost?” I inquired.
“You know well enough, Sam Steele. I’ve lost all my cigarettes—ev’ry box of ’em!—and my four mouth-organs, too. They picked the lock on my door, and opened my telescopes, and stole my property.”
“How’s this, Sam?” inquired Uncle Naboth, his eyes twinkling.
“I don’t know, sir,” I answered, greatly surprised. “There are no duplicate keys to the cabin doors, and Ackley had his in his pocket, I suppose.”
“They picked the lock, I tell you, and the locks on both my traveling cases,” declared the boy, in a rage; “and you must be a fine bunch of practiced thieves, because they were all locked again after the goods were stolen.”
“How about your window?” I asked.
“I left it bolted on the inside. No one could enter that way.”
“Did you lose anything except the cigarettes and the mouth-organs?” I continued, beginning to be greatly amused.
“No; but those things are my property, and you or your people have stolen them. Look here, Sam Steele,” he added, coming close and shaking his fist threateningly; “either you return my property in double quick time or I’ll take it out of your hide. Just make your choice, for I mean business.”
I think he saw that I was not afraid of him, but I chose to ignore his challenge. I was neither as clever a wrestler as Joe Herring nor as expert with my fists as Archie Ackley; so it would be folly for me to undertake a personal encounter. But I said, quietly enough:
“You are getting insolent, my lad, and insolence I will not stand for. Unless you control your temper I will order you to the ship’s lockup, and there you shall stay until we drop anchor again.”
He gazed into my face long and steadily, and then began to whistle softly as he turned and walked away. But a few moments later he returned and said:
“Who’s going to make good my loss?”
“Send me your bill,” replied Uncle Naboth. “I’ll pay it.”
“I think Joe stole the things,” continued Archie.
I called Joe to us.
“Did you enter Ackley’s cabin and take his cigarettes and mouth-organs?” Uncle Naboth inquired.
“No,” said Joe, looking at Archie and laughing at his angry expression.
“Do you know who did it?” persisted my Uncle.
“No,” said Joe, again.
“He’s lying!” cried Archie, indignantly.
“Are you lying, Joe?” I asked, gently.
“Yes, sir,” returned Joe, touching his cap.
“Then tell the truth,” said I.
“I won’t, sir,” replied the boy, firmly. “If you question me, I’m bound to lie; so it will be better to let me alone.”
This answer surprised and annoyed me, but Uncle Naboth laughed aloud, and to my astonishment Archie frankly joined him, without a trace of his recent ill-nature.
“Just as I thought,” he observed. “You’re a slick one, Joe.”
“I try to do my duty,” answered Joe, modestly.
“Bring me your bill, young feller,” said Uncle Naboth, “and I’ll cash it in a jiffy—an’ with joy, too. I don’t see jest how Joe managed the affair, but he’s saved us all a lot of trouble, an’ I’m much obleeged to him, fer my part.” And the old gentleman walked away with a cheerful nod.
“Uncle’s right,” I said to Archie. “You wouldn’t be reasonable, you know, and we were simply obliged to maintain our ship’s discipline. So, if your offending goods hadn’t been abstracted so cleverly, there would have been open war by another day and our side was the strongest.”
Archie nodded forgivingly toward Joe.
“Perhaps it was best,” he admitted, with more generosity than I had expected from him. “You see, Steele, I won’t be bulldozed or browbeaten by a lot of cheap skates who happen to own a ship, for I’m an independent American citizen. So I had to hold out as long as I could.”
“You were wrong in that,” I remarked.
“Right or wrong, I’ll hold my own.”
“That’s a bad philosophy, Archie. When you took passage aboard this ship you made yourself subject to our rules and regulations, and in all honesty you’re bound to abide by them. A true American shows his independence best by upholding the laws of his country.”
“That’s rot,” growled Archie, but Joe and I both laughed at him because he could find nothing better to say. When he returned to his deck chair the passenger’s face bore its normal expression of placid good nature. It was evident he prided himself on the fact that he had not “given in” of his own accord, and perhaps he was glad that the force of circumstances alone had conquered his stubborn temper.
After that we had little trouble with Archie Ackley, although in many ways the stubborn nature of the boy was unpleasantly evident. In his better moods he was an agreeable companion, but neither Joe nor I, the only two other boys aboard, sought his society more than was necessary. My uncle and the Captain both declared there was a heap of good in the lad, and a few such lessons as the one he had received would make a man of him.
Joe I found a treasure in many ways, and always a faithful friend. Since that first night when he had come aboard he had nothing to tell of his past history or experiences; but his nature was quick and observant and I could see he had picked up somewhere a considerable fund of worldly knowledge which he could draw upon as occasion offered.
My father, Uncle Naboth, and I were all three delighted with the Seagull’s sailing performances, though secretly I longed to discover how she would behave under steam, since her propeller had never been in use since the day it was given a brief trial test in Chelsea Bay. Tomlinson, the engineer, assured me we could make from sixteen to eighteen knots when the engines were working, and the man was naturally as impatient as I was to test their full powers. Still, we realized that we must wait, and Captain Steele was so delighted with the superb sailing qualities of the ship that even I had not the heart to suggest supplanting his white wings with black smoke from our funnels.
In due time we crossed the stormy Mediterranean and reached in safety our Syrian port, where we unloaded the rugs and delivered them in good condition to the consignees. We sailed along the coast, past Port Said, and finally came to the Bay of Alexandria, where we were to unload Ackley’s cases of “modern antiques” and get rid of our passenger.
It was a new experience to me to find myself on the historic shores of Egypt, anchored before the famous city founded by Alexander the Great. I begged Uncle Naboth to take me ashore; overhearing my request Archie Ackley invited us all—with an air of great condescension—to dine with him at the Royal Khedivial Hotel.
My father refused. He was too fond of the Seagull to leave her alone in a foreign port; but Ned Britton took his place, and the four of us—Archie, Uncle Naboth, the Mate and I—followed by our faithful blacks, Nux and Bryonia, disembarked on the quay and walked up the long, foreign-looking streets to the big hotel.
It was a queer sensation to find ourselves moving amidst a throng of long-robed turbaned Arabs; fez-topped Turks, with Frenchmen, and Syrians; gray-bearded, stooping Jews; blind beggars; red-coated English soldiers, and shrinking, veiled Moslem women.
“What a mess of foreigners,” cried Archie, and Uncle Naboth, with a laugh, reminded him that we were the foreigners and this curiously mixed crowd, the natives.
We dined in sumptuous style at the handsome hotel, for Archie proved a liberal host and feasted us royally. It was late at night when we retraced our steps toward the quay; but the streets of the city were still thronged with people, many of whom were sitting at little tables placed on the sidewalks, where they smoked and drank Turkish coffee and chatted together in a very babel of tongues.
As we left the heart of Alexandria and drew near to the water-front the streets became more deserted and the lights were fewer and dimmer. There were still straggling groups here and there, and suddenly, as we turned a corner, we observed a commotion just ahead of us and heard a terrified voice cry out:
“Help—Americans—help!”
Ned Britton gave a bound and was in the thick of the melée at once. Archie was only a step behind him and I saw his big fists swinging right and left in fast and furious fashion, while Joe ducked his head and tossed a tall Arab over his shoulder with marvelous ease. Nux and Bryonia took a hand, and while none of our party was armed, the free use of their terrible fists wrought such havoc among the long-gowned Arabs that the result of the skirmish was not long in doubt. Like a mist they faded away and escaped into the night, leaving a little man wriggling and moaning upon the ground as if in deathly agony. I held fast to my left arm, which had been slashed by a knife and was bleeding profusely, while I stared around in surprise at our easy victory. Uncle Naboth had not taken part in the fray, but now appeared seated calmly upon the prostrate form of the Arab whom Joe had vanquished, and his two hundred and odd pounds rendered the prisoner fairly secure.
Our blacks raised the little man to his feet, where he ceased squirming but stood weakly leaning against Nux and trembling like a leaf.
“Are you hurt, sir?” asked Ned.
The stranger shook his head. It was so dark in this spot that we could not distinguish his features very clearly.
“I—I think not,” he gasped. “But they nearly had me, that time. If you hadn’t come up as you did, I—I——”
He broke off abruptly and leaned over to peer at the Arab Uncle Naboth was sitting upon.
“That’s him! That’s Abdul Hashim himself! Kill him—kill him quick, some one!” he yelled, in a sudden frenzy.
The cry seemed to rouse the Arab to life. Like an eel he twisted, and Uncle Naboth slid off his back and bumped upon the sidewalk. The next moment we Americans were alone, for Abdul Hashim had saved his bacon by vanishing instantly.
“Oh, why—why did you let him go?” wailed the little man, covering his face with his hands. “He’ll get me again, some day—he’s sure to get me again!”
“Never mind that,” said Ned, gruffly, for we were all disgusted at this exhibition of the fellow’s unmanly weakness. “You can thank God you’re out of his clutches this time.”
“I do, sir—I do, indeed!” was the reply. “But don’t leave me just now, I beg of you.”
We looked at Uncle Naboth for advice. Bry had slit my sleeve with his pocketknife and was binding a handkerchief tightly around my wound, for he was something of a surgeon as well as a cook.
“We’re going aboard our ship,” said my uncle, shortly. “You’re welcome to come along, my man, an’ stay till mornin’.”
The stranger accepted the invitation with alacrity and we started again for the quay, which was reached without farther incident. Our boat was waiting and we were soon rowed where the Seagull was anchored and climbed aboard.
Under the clear light of the cabin lamp we looked at the person we had rescued with natural curiosity, to find a slender man, with stooping shoulders, a red Van Dyke beard, bald head and small eyes covered with big spectacles. He was about forty years of age, wore European clothes somewhat threadbare and faded in color, and his general appearance was one of seedy respectability.
“Gentlemen,” said he, sitting in an easy chair and facing the attentive group before him, “I am Professor Peter Pericles Van Dorn, of the University of Milwaukee.”
I had never heard of such a university; but then, Milwaukee is a good way inland. Neither had any of us before heard the name so unctuously announced; though we were too polite to say so, and merely nodded.
“It will please me,” continued the Professor, “to be informed of your station and the business that has brought you to Egypt.”
My uncle laughed and looked at me quizzically, as if inviting me to satisfy the stranger. Captain Steele scowled, resenting the implied impertinence. The only others present were Archie and Ned Britton.
I told Van Dorn we were a merchant ship from Boston, and had casually touched at the port of Alexandria to unload some wares belonging to Mr. Ackley, who was going to ship his property to Luxor and deliver it to merchants there.
“What sort of wares?” demanded the stranger.
“Scarabs, funeral figures, and copies of antique jewelry,” replied Archie, a bit uneasily.
“The curse of the country,” snapped the little man, scornfully. “There ought to be a law to prevent such rubbish being shipped into Egypt—except,” pausing to continue with a touch of bitterness, “that there are too many laws in this beastly country already.”
“The poor tourists must have scarabs to take home with them,” said Archie, with a grin. “About fifteen thousand travelers come to Egypt every year, and your Khedive won’t let any genuine scarabs leave Egypt.”
“Don’t call him my Khedive, sir!” cried the little professor. “I detest—I hate the government here, and everything connected with it. But you are not interested in that. Gentlemen,” assuming a pompous tone, “I am glad to meet you. You have arrived in the very nick of time to save me from assassination, or at least from utter failure in my great work. I am sure it was an All-wise Providence that directed you to stop at Alexandria.”
“Disguised as old Ackley’s mud scarabs,” added my uncle, dryly.
“And what are your future plans?” inquired the Professor, eagerly.
“To return to America at once,” I replied.
“No! A thousand times no!” shouted little Van Dorn, banging his fist on the table, “I charter you from this minute. I engage this ship—at your own price—to transport me and my treasure to New York!”
“Treasure!” we exclaimed, incredulously.
The Professor glanced around and lowered his voice.
“The greatest treasure, gentlemen, that has ever been discovered in Egypt. I have found the place where the priests of Karnak and Luxor hid their vast wealth at the invasion of Cambyses the Persian.”
He paused impressively. My father looked at his watch and Uncle Naboth yawned. For myself, I should have liked to hear more, but my wound was paining me and Bry awaited my coming to dress it properly. So I said to our guest:
“If you please, Professor, we will hear your story in the morning. It is now late, and we are all longing for our berths. So we will bid you good-night and wish you pleasant dreams.”
He glared at me indignantly.
“Can you sleep after what I have told you?” he demanded.
“I hope so, sir,” I replied, and turned away to call Joe to show the man to his room. He made no farther protest, but going away and looking rather thoughtful.
Bry found that the knife had merely inflicted a flesh wound on my arm, and promised it would give me little trouble. The bleeding had stopped, so my black surgeon washed the cut thoroughly, bandaged and plastered it quite professionally, and sent me to bed to sleep soundly until morning.
Really, I forgot all about the Professor, who looked the part of a savant much better than he acted it, it seemed to me.
At breakfast Professor Van Dorn was silent and preöccupied, and as soon as the meal was over asked for a private interview with the person in authority aboard the Seagull. We went to the Captain’s room, a large cabin where all could be comfortably seated. None of us had much confidence in the stranger’s romantic assertions of the night before, but we were all curious to know what tale the man had to relate, and were disposed to listen. Archie’s eyes bunged out so far from his round face that I took pity on the boy and asked him to join us. Ned Britton came, too, for he had been present at Van Dorn’s rescue and we trusted him implicitly.
When we were seated and the Professor had assured himself we could not be overheard, he at once asked permission to relate the business that had brought him to Egypt and the strange experiences he had encountered here. We told him to fire away and we would hear his story.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “you must know that I hold the honorable chair of Egyptology in my university. Since my youth I have studied arduously the history of this most ancient people, from whom sprung the modern civilization of which we boast today.” He spoke pedantically, and I began to think he might be a real professor, after all. “To perfect my studies my college generously sent me here, three years ago, and soon after my arrival I became acquainted with Professor John Lovelace, whose famous works on ancient Egypt you have doubtless read.”
We had not read them, but we let the assertion pass.
“Over here,” continued the narrator, “he was usually called Lovelace Pasha, but he was not entitled to the distinction except in the imagination of the natives, who had a high respect for his intelligence and industry. At the time we met Lovelace he was searching diligently but secretly for a vast treasure, and he took me into his confidence and engaged me to assist him. You must know that in the sixth century before Christ Egypt was at its height of wealth and greatness; and the most important treasures were at that time in the possession of the priests of the great temple of Karnak. They consisted of wonderful gems, countless jewels and ornaments of gold and silver and, above all, a library of papyrus rolls relating the history of Egypt during that now unknown period between the sixth and twelfth dynasties.
“At this time, when the Egyptians had grown as proud and insolent as they were wealthy, that terrible Persian, Cambyses, invaded the country with a conquering host and steadily advanced up the Nile toward Karnak and Thebes, laying waste the country as he came and despoiling the temples of their wealth. The legends say that the priests of Karnak, terror stricken, threw all their treasure into the Sacred Lake which adjoins their temple, in order to keep it from falling into the hands of the invader; and, as the lake is bottomless, the treasure has never yet been recovered.
“Now, sirs, Professor Lovelace, a shrewd and far-seeing man, doubted the truth of this story. It was an undeniable fact that the great treasure of Karnak was hidden somewhere by the priests, and that Cambyses put all the holy men to the sword because they would not reveal their secret. Also it is historical that the treasure has not since been discovered, and that the conqueror was unable to lay hands upon it after all his efforts to do so. During the centuries that have passed the Sacred Lake has been dragged many times, with the hope of finding the immense wealth of Karnak; but it is now known that the quicksands at the bottom of the lake would have swallowed it up instantly, so naturally all these attempts have proved absolute failures.
“My friend Lovelace, pondering on this queer story, came to believe that the wily priests had never thrown their treasure into the lake at all. No one knew better than they that to place it there was to lose it forever; furthermore, the most valuable part of the treasure consisted of the historic papyri—the bark rolls on which the ancient Egyptians inscribed their records. To place these in water would be to destroy them; thus the falsity of the tale was evident. It was clear, my friend decided, that the priests had hidden the treasure somewhere in the desert, near Karnak, where the shifting sands would leave no evidence of the place to betray it to the keen eyes of the Persian. But they spread the report that it had been cast into the lake, so if any traitor might be among the people the truth would not be revealed.
“Since Cambyses put every priest of Karnak to death, in his unreasoning anger, there was none to recover the treasure when the Persian was gone home again, from which Professor Lovelace conjectured that it still lay secure in its original hiding-place.
“But where was that hiding place? That was the question to be solved. For years he sought in the desert without success but with rare patience, and at just about the time I arrived in Egypt he obtained a clue to guide him.
“On one of the ruined temple walls, hidden away in an unimportant corner, is carved a diagram which to an ordinary observer appeared to mean nothing at all. But Lovelace studied it and came to the conclusion that the diagram described the spot where the treasure was hidden. There was a picture of a high arch, called in Egypt a pylon; and through this picture, from one corner diagonally across to another corner, a line was chiseled. This line extended far beyond the pylon, past a group of three pictured palm trees, and then ended in a cross. Do you follow me, gentlemen?” with an eager, nervous glance into our faces.
Uncle Naboth nodded, but he looked bewildered. Archie’s face wore a perfectly blank expression. My father was smoking placidly and looking out of the cabin window. Said I:
“We are not very familiar with Egyptian history, Professor; but I think we catch the drift of your story. Pay out the cable, sir, and we’ll grasp what we can of it.”
He seemed relieved, saying:
“Very well, my boy. Egyptian history is very fascinating, but this is neither the time nor the place for me to instruct you in it. Still, it is necessary that you understand something of the importance of the proposition I am going to make you, and I will be as clear as possible in my descriptions. The arch, or pylon, referred to in the picture, had three square towers, to distinguish it from many others, and after searching long among the ruins of Karnak, which cover many acres, Lovelace Pasha and I found one which, though partly demolished, still had one of the characteristic towers left, with traces of the others. Taking these as our guide we drew an imaginary line from corner to corner, as in the diagram, and taking our compass we started out to follow this imaginary line across the desert. Three miles away we found, to our great joy, the group of palms, very ancient, without doubt, but still standing, and near to these was a small oasis watered by a tiny spring.