THE LAST OF HIS RACE.
IT is interesting, though ill-mannered, to watch other people at a railway bookstall and guess their choice of literature from their outward appearance.
Had you pursued this diversion, however, in the case of Mr. Harringay Jones as he stood before the bookstall at Paddington, you would, I fear, have been far out in your conjecture. For Mr. Jones, who had the indeterminate baldheadedness of the bank cashier and might have been anything from thirty-five to sixty, did not purchase a volume of essays or a political autobiography, but selected a flaming one-and-sixpenny narrative of spy hunts and secret service intrigue.
Still, how could you have guessed that Mr. Jones's placid countenance and rotund frame concealed an imagination that was almost boyish in its unsatisfied craving for adventure? Humdrum year had succeeded humdrum year, yet he had never despaired. Some day would come that great moment when the limelight of the world's wonder would centre on him, and he would hold the stage alone.
But till its arrival he consoled himself with literature and found vicarious enjoyment in the deeds of others. As long as his imagination could grow lean in its search for treasure amid Alaskan snows, he recked not if reality added an inch or two to his circumference. While he could solve, in fancy, problems that had baffled the acutest investigators, what matter if his tie-pin got mislaid?
And then came war to deposit romance and adventure upon our doorsteps. Mr. Jones was agog with excitement.
Espionage, treachery in high places, the hidden hand—Mr. Jones read about them all and shuddered with unholy joy. Perhaps he, an obscure cashier—who could tell? Stranger things had happened.
Meanwhile he devoured all the spy literature he could find, for, as he once remarked to himself, in dealing with such gentry you have to mind your P's and QUEUX. It was his only joke.
His literary choice dictated by such considerations, Mr. Jones picked his way delicately across the platforms till he reached his compartment, into the corner of which he stretched himself luxuriously and prepared to enjoy his book.
Just before the train started a lady entered carrying a baby and—greatly to Mr. Jones's annoyance—took the corner seat opposite him. Being a confirmed bachelor, he had a horror of all babies, but this child in particular struck him with disfavour; seldom, he thought, had he seen such a peevish discontented expression on any human face.
Close on the lady's heels followed a withered old man of the traditional professorial type, who seated himself at the other end of the compartment.
Mr. Jones buried himself in his book. For once, however, the narrative failed to entertain him. Beautiful spies lavished their witchery in vain; the sagacity of the hero left him cold.
Suddenly an atmosphere of unrest and agitation conveyed itself to him. The train was slowing down in the darkness; the lady opposite was leaning forward, her face pale, her whole attitude tense with excitement. The train stopped; outside someone was walking along the metals; there came the sound of a guttural remark.
The lady put her hand to her heart and, turning to the elderly gentleman, gasped, "Doctor, that was his voice. They have tracked us."
The old man rose quietly and, opening the far door, stood waiting.
"But the child?" she cried with a sob.
"He must be left behind, Madame. There is less danger thus."
"But what am I to do?" She turned to Mr. Jones, looked at him steadily and fixedly, and then, as if satisfied with what she read in him, exclaimed, "You have a good heart. You must keep him. Do not let them have him; too much depends upon it."
And before the astonished cashier had time to protest his fellow-travellers had gone and he was alone with the child.
But not for long. Just as the train commenced to move again three men entered the compartment; two appeared to be servants, but the third was a young man of distinguished appearance, the most conspicuous items of whose attire were a dark Homburg hat and a long cape of Continental cut.
Mr. Jones's heart missed a beat.
Throwing a searching glance around the compartment the stranger rapped out, "There has been a lady in here?"
"No," replied Mr. Jones, on general principles.
For answer the stranger picked a cambric handkerchief off the floor.
"That's mine," said Mr. Jones hastily.
"Perhaps," was the sneering reply, "you will tell me also that the child is yours."
"Certainly," said Mr. Jones, ruffled by his cross-examination; "it always has been."
The stranger snorted contemptuously. "You are good at explanations. Perhaps you can explain this."
Mr. Jones looked down at the baby's coat. To his amazement he beheld a crown and monogram embroidered on it.
"That," he replied, taking refuge in fatuity, "is the laundry mark."
"Come, come, enough of this fooling. Give me the child."
Mr. Jones took no notice.
"Give me the child, I say."
Mr. Jones paled but did not move.
"Very good, then." The stranger turned to his attendants. "Rupert, Rudolph," he said.
Two revolver barrels flashed out.
Mr. Jones stood up hastily, the child clutched tightly in his arms. "What do you mean by threatening me like this? What right have you to the child? I never heard of such a thing; I shall inform the police."
"Porkhound," yelled the stranger, "do you defy me? me, Count Achtung von Eisenbahn? Give me the babe. I must have him. I will have him. He is ours—our Prince Fritz, the last of the Hohenzollerns."
The great moment had come. Jones's face lit up. Death—a hero's death—might claim him, but he would make democracy safe for the world.
"Last of the Hohenzollerns!" he shouted; "then, by Jove, this is going to be the last of him." And with a yell of triumph he hurled the infant out into the night.
From the child in its trajectory came a long ear-splitting shriek, followed by a gentle wailing.
Mr. Jones sat up and blinked his eyes. The professorial gentleman was still in the far corner; the lady was still opposite him; the child was wailing softly.
The lady smiled. "I'm afraid baby has broken your nap. A passing express frightened him."
"Not at all," murmured Mr. Jones incoherently, searching for his novel, the one solace left amid the ruin of his dreams.
"Pardon me," said the lady, "but if you are looking for your book you threw it out of the window just before you woke up."
Mr. Jones sank back resignedly. His glory had gone, his book had gone.
Once again he settled himself in his corner to sleep—perchance to dream.
"JACKY, DEAR, YOUR HANDS ARE FRIGHTFULLY DIRTY."
"NOT 'FRIGHTFULLY,' MUMMY. A LOT OF THAT'S SHADING."