Under the Big Dipper

by Desiderius George Dery

At the depot he found his train waiting. It was made up of a number of baggage cars and but one car for passengers. Finding a comfortable seat, he amused himself in watching the conductor, in resplendent uniform, running alongside the train as he kept blowing energetically through a little horn the signal to the engineer to start. Soon the labored puffing of the locomotive told him that he was at last on his way. It was a wearisome journey, all up-grade, through deep cuts and over widely stretched viaducts; but he was too much occupied with anxious thoughts of the coming days to notice the beauty of the mountain scenery. He felt the pulling power of the engine and realized hazily that they were climbing, climbing, climbing. Suddenly it seemed to him as if the train had been lightened of a load, and looking out he saw that the engine had slowed down and that they had arrived at a little station on a small plateau. A prominent sign-post caught his eye. It was printed red, white and green on one side, and a bright yellow and crimson on the other. They had reached the boundary, the divide, and all around him rose up the great peaks of the Carpathians.

The gorgeous conductor stepped up to the compartment and informed Morton that he would have to change now. On the platform he found a number of gendarmes busily engaged in examining the passengers’ baggage. One of these accosted Morton in foreign-sounding German, and asked him for his valise and passport.

Everything was found to be in order. The gendarme, made happy by the gift of a cigar, ushered Morton into another car on a side-track. A shrill blast and the train moved slowly out. Soon the descent began and the rapid motion roused Morton to his surroundings. It was a truly magnificent sight to behold. White peak on white peak gleamed in the brilliant golden light of the afternoon sun. Then came rounded hills and after these the sharper contours of the Alpine range; and before he had had time to take it all in, the train had entered the rolling meadows and glades of the Great Danubian plain.

The splendid panorama had passed and Morton’s interest subsided. He leaned back against the leather upholstery of the compartment once more alone with his thoughts. Occasionally the conductor would look in at the window from the stepping board on the outside of the car and nod pleasantly to him. Morton would return the greeting automatically and resume his meditations. Yes, he was learning, and learning fast. In the desert from which he had but lately stepped out, so to speak, a man was measured by his offensive or defensive value—whether he would protect himself or be a danger to others. In the countries of civilization, he was similarly appraised, although in terms of social standing or money. In this isolated Transylvania, however, into which he had come, he had found a difference. Here was a loyalty founded on faith in human nature and religion. Father Moskar had gently but firmly declined even his offer of a contribution for the poor; while the two rough men had refused more than their just wages for their services. How different were these from those he had known in his past life! Nay, how different even from himself! Why had he undertaken this enterprise? He could not help confessing to himself that his motives were really selfish ones. What lay behind his readiness to rescue the Count’s daughter if not his own desires? Was not even love itself a selfishness—the supremest of all selfishness?

“I have been too long in the desert,” he muttered to himself; “it is high time I came back to civilization. Man was not created to live alone.”

The train crossed a bridge and the noise made by the sound roused him to his whereabouts. He was nearing his destination. The approach to the capital of Roumelia was not marked by the usual signs of a large city’s outlying districts. He missed the factories and the tall chimneys belching forth smoke; he saw no railroad crossings, or culverts, or streets crowded with toilers. Instead, he made out, in the dark and gloom of the fast oncoming evening, gaunt buildings against a leaden sky and sparsely lit thoroughfares. Then, with snortings and puffings, the train entered the ill-smelling and smoky shed of the depot. He was in Bucharest.

Scarcely had he alighted when a villainous looking porter grabbed his valise from him and said some words in a language which was Coptic to Morton. He decided to allow the fellow to have his way and followed him, through the press of outgoing people, to the entrance. Here he found a uniformed individual with a magnificent beard black as coal. Catching the porter by his sleeve, he held him while he asked of the soldierly Swengali, in English, the name of a good hotel. He was evidently understood, for the uniformed person spoke to the porter and in wretched English asked Morton to follow him to the Grand Hotel Metropole. John then noticed that the name of this hotel was embroidered in gold on the man’s cap.

The porter was feed and relieved of his burden, and Morton found himself installed in a hotel bus which was soon rattling noisily over the stones. Arrived at the hotel, he registered as from Cleveland, U. S. A., and was given fairly decent rooms.

His first business, after he had made himself presentable, was to write a short note to Mr. Bronson, the American Consul, to whom he had letters of introduction from Brindisi. He invited him to dine with him that same evening. Morton knew that there was magic in his visiting card and had no doubt that his invitation would be accepted.

This done, he leisurely descended the broad stairway that led to the large and rather garishly decorated foyer there to await the return of his messenger.