The gentleman whose voice Mr. Copewell heard singing beside him in the wilderness was not, himself, without his troubles. Trouble resembles the star in the drama, who comes in various make-ups and reading various lines, but always demanding the center of the stage and claiming the white glare of the spotlight.
Mr. Copewell, longing for the soft voice of the lady of his heart, believed in his soul that no misfortune could equal that of a marriage ruthlessly interrupted by the chance hostility of Fate. Mr. Rat Connors was equally certain that Destiny does her worst when she thwarts a dash for freedom and fortune.
Mr. Rat Connors had more than a bowing acquaintance with Vicissitude, the hope-scuttling Lord of Life. Vicissitude, in its latest guise, had come wearing the mantle of Reform to the city of Mercerville, where rich treasures had heretofore awaited enterprise and where the new régime had blasted prospects. Mr. Connors wished most wishfully that the gentlemen responsible for this spoil-sport amendment of régime were, for two minutes, in his power and that he held in his right hand a serviceable fragment of lead pipe.
Only last night a warning had been given him at Corkhill’s Exchange that it would be most expedient for him to leave town. Corkhill’s Exchange was, in the argot of such as Mr. Connors, “de dump w’ere de woid is passed ter cut loose or lie low.” The word just now was not merely to lie low but to fly far.
“Take it from me, Rat,” the bartender had confided, “an’ beat it! De new Chief ain’t goin’ ter run t’ings on de old plan. De bulls ain’t goin’ ter take de divvy an’ keep d’eir faces shut no more. McGarvey’s due ter get de ax. If you hangs round here, you’ll be ditched an’ settled an’ de key t’rowed away, see? McGarvey tipped dat off hisself, an’ it’s straight. He said de best he could do fer youse guys was ter warn youse ter make quick getaways, see?”
This advice, being interpreted, meant that an end had come to the old régime under which Corkhill’s Exchange had operated as a neutral zone where police and criminals maintained an entente cordiale on a monetary basis. That was the work of the Hon. Alexander Hamilton Burrow and his confréres. It was very inconvenient for Mr. Rat Connors.
So Mr. Connors, being just then short of funds, had planned a double event in the way of a flight and a coup. There was a certain country house near Perryville where the treasure was alluring, and if Mr. Connors could reach it he thought he saw a way to mend his fortunes. It was the journey thither which “Captain” Fallow had frustrated.
But to return to immediate conditions—Mr. Copewell wished to learn the time. He struck a match to consult his watch. Then he groaned again. His watch had stopped! Without knowledge of the hour he was a storm-tossed mariner deprived of a compass. In a rudimentary fashion the paralyzed brain of Mr. Copewell had begun to take up again the task of thought.
Thought had carried him this far. Mary Asheton would necessarily take one of the horns of her dilemma. She would either leave the train at Jaffa Junction, as per program, to find herself at the mercy of a rude and woman-hating man, or she would receive a quick and unsoftened warning from the aforesaid brutal person, in which event she would continue on her way, heartbroken, to aunty and Europe. If she were indeed marooned at Jaffa Junction, the essential thing was to establish communication with that point. Hence, the first step was to find a telephone. If, on the other hand, Burrow had warned her, the one indispensable step was to flag the east-bound train as it passed his own isolated spot.
Without knowledge of time or place he could not risk leaving the track, because he could have no idea when the train might pass. Perhaps this minstrel, whose voice had come to him through the curtain of darkness, might have a watch. Perhaps he might become an ally. Without a lantern Mr. Copewell could not flag the train unless he built a fire. Obviously, therefore, he must kindle a blaze and open negotiations with the unknown singer. Under the sudden stimulus of revivified hope Mr. Copewell became facetious. “Hello, you, Caruso!” he shouted.