“They might have believed me a little daft, for surely such a Quixotic venture could have but one meaning—that I had thrown my senses to the winds, and imbibed too much Chicago champagne.”
“Here comes the Turk straight at me, as if resolved to wait no longer. Mark his dark face. He saw you come out of that car. The deal is up, and I must defy his royal nibs.”
Aroun Scutari has barred their path; one hand he reaches out and touches Wycherley.
“You deceived me, traitor!” he says, with a peculiar accent on the words, such as a foreigner usually gives, no matter how thoroughly at home he may be with the English language.
“My dear fellow, you are mistaken; I simply deceived myself. When the critical moment came my nerve failed me. That mug of French cider should have been something stronger. It is all right, anyway; this gentleman saved the girls, so what’s the odds?”
His coolness is remarkable. Really Wycherley must have haunted the Eskimo village a good deal of late, to show so little concern with the grave affairs of life.
“It is all wrong. By the beard of the Prophet, I will look to you! Where is the money with which I buy your soul?” demands the Turk, working his hands as though eager to get them fastened upon the throat of the Christian dog of an unbeliever.
“What you paid me I used in the regular routine of my work. By proxy, I saved the girl. There is now one hundred dollars due. Will you pony up?” holding out his hand, at which the furious Moslem glares.
“I do not understand. You make sport with me, a pasha. If it were Turkey I would have your head to pay!” he snarls.
“Then I am glad it is not Turkey. You thought you had me molded to your liking, but the worm has turned. We are quits, Scutari. Au revoir,” and gayly waving his hand, the debonnair Swiveller of the Midway takes Aleck’s arm and saunters on, leaving the gentleman from the Bosphorus standing there, his brown face convulsed with the fury that rends his soul, as he realizes that his amazing scheme has thus far proved a lamentable failure.