Under the Big Dipper

by Desiderius George Dery

He had no sooner stepped into the hall than he was accosted by a tall and lean individual in faultless lounging suit, who addressed him in perfect French by name and presented his card. He was M. Puscariu, Agent of the Department of the Interior—Would Monsieur Morton permit him to ask him a few questions—excusable in the present state of the country? He was sure that Monsieur would have no objection.

Monsieur Morton had none. He held the card before him and read the name slowly and with perfect composure. Trouble was beginning already, he thought. He begged Monsieur Puscariu to proceed.

The sergeant of gendarmes had reported that Monsieur Morton had an American passport and had registered from Cleveland. The passport, however, had been issued at Rome, and within five days it seems. Would Monsieur Morton kindly explain.

John was nonplussed. He looked anxiously around for his messenger and, luckily, spied the boy just entering and moving toward the clerk’s desk. If there was one man on earth more than any other that he wanted for a moment, it was the American Consul. Begging Monsieur Puscariu to excuse him for a moment, he hurried towards the messenger boy and was informed by him that Signor Bronson would be at the hotel without delay.

Greatly relieved, he rejoined Monsieur Puscariu and informed him that the American Consul would arrive presently and explain for him. In the meantime, would not Monsieur join him in a cigarette? Monsieur Puscariu would be delighted. What a bond of fellowship there is in a smoke! It is well called the pipe of peace. Morton and the agent to the Secretary of the Interior, as they sat together on the broad lounge would, to a stranger entering the hotel, have seemed to be life-long friends, so quickly had the cigarette dissipated all feelings of restraint. Surely it is the frailties rather than the virtues that cement human relations! It would, indeed, seem as if it were the touch of weakness which makes the whole world kin. Perhaps, this it was which made Monsieur Puscariu look on the American stranger as a gentleman. Had he, however, entertained any other thoughts there was no time to dwell on them for Mr. Bronson just then entered hurriedly.

Morton rose to meet him and was greeted in return with considerable effusion. When the Consul learned the object of the agent’s presence, he drew the official aside—and told him very impressively who this Mr. Morton was. The change that came over the face of Monsieur Puscariu was amusing. From an official solemnity, it melted almost instantaneously into smiling respect. Here was a man whose very breath was odorous of ready cash. Ah, yes, this was quite a different matter. There was no necessity for any explanations—none whatsoever.

But Morton insisted. He informed the two gentlemen that he was to be in Bucharest but for a few days. He had come to make a preliminary and merely cursory investigation of the status of certain oil concessions. He was desirous to find out how the government would take the investment of foreign capital for developing this natural product of the country. At present, however, he would prefer to engage an attorney of high standing to make these inquiries and report to him. Incidentally, he might seize the occasion of his visit to secure some good stallions and a few brood-mares of the celebrated strain of Carpathian percherons for his farms in Ohio. These were his principal reasons for asking the Consul to call on him.

Monsieur Puscariu and the Consul exchanged quick glances—here was a fine opportunity for both. The Roumelian was now convinced that the quiet young man must be made much of—there was no doubt about that. He was the more firmly convinced after smoking one of Morton’s fine cigars and drinking a glass of Tokay. He knew the very attorney for Monsieur Morton’s business. He would send the gentleman to call if Monsieur Morton desired it. As Monsieur Morton did desire it, Monsieur Puscariu was still more firmly convinced of John’s importance. Assuring Monsieur Morton of his most sincere esteem and promising that the honored visitor to his beloved country would receive every consideration, the agent bowed himself out, leaving John alone with the Consul.

Mr. Bronson, a bright young fellow from one of the South Atlantic states, quickly took occasion by the ear and informed John of his disappointment with the position he occupied in Bucharest. His salary was far from adequate for his office. It was bad enough to be in Bucharest before the political upheaval; but since the revolution,—the place had become absolutely a hell’s hole. There was no money in his job! His fees for the past few weeks wouldn’t buy a square meal.

If John had any scruples, they vanished at hearing Mr. Bronson’s words. He felt himself justified in throwing out hints of the “governor always taking care of his friends,” and spoke of fees and commissions for parties handling the proposition rightly. He indulged in some “tall talk” about petroleum, and asked the Consul’s opinion as to the fitness of the attorney the agent had recommended. The Consul knew him and advised his retention; he was in with the powers that be, and that, just now, was important.