“Now pay attention, friends, and I will tell you what is in the wind. This vendetta of Cairo Street aims to carry out the will of a master mind. Against two persons the grudge is held, one of them our Canadian friend, who has interfered with the nabob’s plans in several ways, the other King Cereal himself.
“I learned that one of the men was in your employ, sir, and you may recognize him by the name of Anthony, which I heard him called.”
“The rascal, the traitor—and I have done so much for him!” says the operator angrily.
“Never mind. He is an ungrateful dog, and the Turk’s gold bought him. I understand that you expect a friend or two here to-morrow, and have arranged to show them the Midway in the evening, as they are especially interested in the foreign countries or something in that line; didn’t bother my head to catch the particulars. Well, sir, these fellows have got it in for you and Craig. The trap will be set and baited, and before another day dawns on Chicago, Turkish vengeance wins.
“This is to be brought about by strategy, gentlemen, in which a woman figures whom the said Samson Cereal has long believed dead.”
“Don’t mention her again,” says the operator, turning deathly white, and thinking of Dorothy, who must hear every word; but although the sudden warning causes Phœnix to be more guarded in his speech, what he has already said has aroused a curiosity in the mind of Dorothy that will grow rapidly, until it brings her in at the grand climax.
“In palmy days of yore, before I took to tramping in order to see the undercurrent of life, I used to be a shorthand reporter, and my old tricks of the trade cling to me still. Under that miserable old camel blanket, with a gleam of electric light coming in at a hole, I did some of the tallest scribbling of my experience, jotting down whatever seemed of importance. Lo, the result, messieurs, of that enterprise!”
He takes from his pocket a notebook, and shows page after page of scribbling, the strange hieroglyphics of the stenographer. The lines awry and the characters often faulty, but, considering the peculiar circumstances under which it was written, the work is rather creditable to the scribe.
“A little out of practice, I fear, gentlemen, but on the whole I reckon you can have it easily written out into everyday English. Between these covers lies a story as thrilling, as weird as any I ever read in Puck. It will a tale unfold to harrow up your soul and make your blood run cold.
“This, then, I leave as a legacy. Hire some poor hungry devil of a shorthand writer to spin the yarn. My word for it, you will be amply repaid. I would dearly love to undertake the task myself, without hope of reward, but two things prevent. I always hated rendering into prosy English the poetic signs of shorthand. Then again my time is limited in this romantic city by the lakeside. I am uneasy—like the Wandering Jew I find no rest, but must cross the border to Canada’s domain. An important engagement necessitates my leaving on the next train. Hence, you will excuse me if I retire. Aleck, my dear boy, always remember you with pleasure. Look you up in Montreal if I settle there. Reckon I’ll make a good Canuck in the end. Mr. Cereal, yours to command. Young lady, proud to have served one so lovely. As to you, sir,” addressing the party who still persists in keeping his back turned, “if you will step outside with me, where we run no chance of disturbing the elements of this charming gathering, the question of your right to break upon my narrative with insulting grunts that are significant of contempt will speedily be settled,” and with this explosive shot the man from Denver takes a step toward the door.