CHAPTER IX. THE MAN WHO SPOKE LATIN
Mementoes of Average Jones' exploits in his chosen field hang on thewalls of his quiet sanctum. Here the favored visitor may see the twored-ink dots on a dated sheet of paper, framed in with the card of achemist and an advertised sale of lepidopteroe, which drove a famousmillionaire out of the country. Near by are displayed the exploitationof a lure for black-bass, strangely perforated (a man's reason hung onthose pin-pricks), and a scrawled legend which seems to spell "Mercy"(two men's lives were sacrificed to that); while below them, set insomber black, is the funeral notice of a dog worth a million dollars;facing the call for a trombone-player which made a mayor, and themathematical formula which saved a governor. But nowhere does theobserver find any record of one of the Ad-Visor's most curious cases,running back two thousand years; for its owner keeps it in his deskdrawer, whence the present chronicler exhumed it, by accident, one day.Average Jones has always insisted that he scored a failure on this,because, through no possible fault of his own, he was unable to restorea document of the highest historical and literary importance. Of that,let the impartial reader judge.
It was while Average Jones was waiting for a break of that deadlock ofevents which, starting from the flat-dweller with the poisoned face,finally worked out the strange fate of Telfik Bey, that he sat, onemorning, breakfasting late. The cool and breezy inner portico of theCosmic Club, where small tables overlook a gracious fountain shimmeringwith the dart and poise of goldfish, was deserted save for himself,a summer-engagement star actor, a specialist in carbo-hydrates, and afamous adjuster of labor troubles; the four men being fairly typical ofthe club's catholicity of membership. Contrary to his impeccant habit,Average Jones bore the somewhat frazzled aspect of a man who has been upall night. Further indication of this inhered in the wide yawn, ofwhich he was in mid-enjoyment, when a hand on his shoulder cut short hisecstasy.
"Sorry to interrupt so valuable an exercise," said a languid voice."But--" and the voice stopped.
"Hello, Bert," returned the Ad-Visor, looking up at the faultlessly cladslenderness of his occasional coadjutor, Robert Bertram. "Sit down andkeep me awake till the human snail who's hypothetically ministering tomy wants can get me some coffee."
"What particular phase of intellectual debauchery have you been up tonow?" inquired Bertram, lounging into the chair opposite.
"Trying to forget my troubles by chasing up a promising lead whichfailed to pan, out. 'Wanted: a Tin Nose,' sounds pretty good, eh?"
"It is music to my untutored ear," answered Bertram.
"But it turned out to be merely an error of the imbecile, or perhapsfacetious printer, who sets up the Trumpeter's personal column. Itshould have read, 'Wanted--a Tea Rose."'
"Even that seems far from commonplace."
"Only a code summons for a meeting of the Rosicrucians. I suppose youknow that the order has been revived here in America."
"Not the true Rosicrucians, surely!" said Bertram.
"They pretend to be. A stupid lot who make child's play of it," saidAverage Jones impatiently. "Never mind them. I'd rather know what'son your mind. You made an observation when you came in, rather moreinteresting than your usual output of table-talk. You said 'but' andnothing further. The conjunction 'but,' in polite grammar, ordinarilyhas a comet-like tail to it."
"Apropos of polite grammar, do you speak Latin?" asked Bertramcarelessly.
"Not enough to be gossipy in it."
"Then you wouldn't care to give a job to a man who can't speak anythingelse?"
"On that qualification alone?"
"No-o, not entirely. He is a good military engineer, I believe."
"So that's the other end of the 'but,' is it?" said Average Jones. "Goon. Elaborate."
Bertram laid before his friend a printed clipping in clear, large type,saying: "When I read this, I couldn't resist the notion that somehowor other it was in your line; pursuit of the adventure of life, and allthat. Let's see what you make of it."
Average Jones straightened in his chair.
"Latin!" he said. "And an ad, by the look of it. Can our blind friend,J. Alden Honeywell, have taken to the public prints?"
"Hardly, I think. This is from the Classical Weekly, a Baltimorepublication of small and select patronage."
"Hm. Looks ra-a-a-ather alluring," commented Average Jones with aprolonged drawl. "Better than the Rosicrucian fakery, anyhow."
He bent over the clipping, studying these words.
L. Livius M. F. Praenestinus, quodlibet in negotium non inhonestum quivictum meream locare ve lim. Litteratus sum; scriptum facere bene scio.Stipendia multa emeritus, scientiarum belli, prasertim muniendi, sumperitus. Hac de re pro me spondebit M. Agrippa. Latine tantum solo.Siquis me velit convenire, quovis die mane adesto in publicis hortisurbis Baltimorianae ad signum apri.
"Can you make it out?" asked Bertram.
"Hm-m-m. Well--the general sense. Livius seems to yearn in modern printfor any honest employment, but especially scrapping of the ancientvariety or secretarying. Apply to Agrippa for references. Since hedescribes his conversation as being confined to Latin, I take it hewon't find many jobs reaching out eagerly for him. Anybody who wantshim can find him in the Park of the Wild Boar in Baltimore. That's aboutwhat I make of it. Now, what's his little lay, I wonder."
"Some lay of Ancient Rome, anyhow," suggested Bertram. "Association withAgrippa would put him back in the first century, B. C., wouldn't it?Besides, my informant tells me that Mr. Livius, who seems to have beenan all-around sort of person, helped organize fire brigades for Crassus,and was one of the circle of minor poets who wrote rhapsodies to thefair but frail Clodia's eyebrows, ear-lobes and insteps."
"Your informant? The man's actually been seen, then?"
"Oh, Yes. He's on view as per advertisement, I understand."
Average Jones rose and stretched his well-knit frame. "Baltimore willbe hotter than the Place-as-Isn't," he said plaintively. "Martyrdom byfire! However, I'm off by the five-o'clock train. I'll let you know ifanything special comes of it, Bert."
Barye's splendid bronze boar couches, semi-shaded, in the center ofMonument Park, Baltimore's social hill-top. There Average lounged andstrolled through the longest hour of a glaring July morning. People cameand went; people of all degrees and descriptions, none of whomsuggested in any particular the first century, B. C. One individualonly maintained any permanency of situation. He was a gaunt, powerful,freckled man of thirty who sprawled on a settee and regarded AverageJones with obvious and amused interest. In time this annoyed theAd-Visor, who stopped short, facing the settee.
"He's gone," said the freckled man.
"Meaning Livius, the Roman?" asked Average Jones.
"Exactly. Lucius Livius, son of Marcus Praenestinus."
"Are you the representative of this rather peculiar person, may I ask?"
"It would be a dull world, except for peculiar persons," observed theman on the settee philosophically. "I've seen very many peculiar personslately by the simple process of coming here day after day. No, I'mnot Mr. Livius' representative. I'm only a town-bound and interestedobserver of his."
"There you've got the better of me," said Average Jones. "I was ratheranxious to see him myself."
The other looked speculatively at the trim, keen-faced young man. "Yetyou do not look like a Latin scholar," he observed; "if you'll pardonthe comment."
"Nor do you," retorted Jones; "if the apology is returnable."
"I suppose not," owned the other with a sigh. "I've often thought thatmy classical capacity would gain more recognition if I didn't have askin like Bob Fitzsimmons and hands like Ty Cobb. Nevertheless, I'min and of the department of Latin of Johns Hopkins University. Name,Warren. Sit down."
"Thanks," said the other. "Name, Jones. Profession, advertising advisor.Object, curiosity."
"A. V. R. E. Jones; better known as Average Jones, I believe?"
"'Experto crede! Being dog Latin for 'You seem to know all about it."'The new-comer ey
ed his vis-a-vis. "Perhaps you--er--know Mr. RobertBertram," he drawled.
"Oculus--the eye--tauri--of the bull. Bull's eye!" said the freckledone, with a grin. "I'd heard of your exploits through Bertram, andthought probably you'd follow the bait contained in my letter to him."
"Nothing wrong with your nerve-system, is there?" inquired AverageJones with mock anxiety. "Now that I'm here, where is L. Livius. And soforth?"
"Elegantly but uncomfortably housed with Colonel Ridgway Graeme in hisancestral barrack on Carteret Street."
"Is this Colonel Graeme a friend of yours?"
"Friend and--foe, tried and true. We meet twice a week, usually athis house, to squabble over his method of Latin pronunciation and hisconstruction of the ablative case. He's got a theory of the ablativeabsolute," said Warren with a scowl, "fit to fetch Tacitus howling fromthe shades."
"A scholar, then?"
"A very fine and finished scholar, though a faddist of the rankest type.Speaks Latin as readily as he does English."
"Old?"
"Over seventy."
"Rich?"
"Not in money. Taxes on his big place keep him pinched; that and hispassion for buying all kinds of old and rare books. He's got, perhapsan income of five thousand, clear, of which about three thousand goes inbook auctions."
"Any family?"
"No. Lives with two ancient colored servants who look after him."
"How did our friend from B. C. connect up with him?"
"Oh, he ran to the old colonel like a chick to its hen. You see, therearen't so very many Latinists in town during the hot weather. Perhapseighteen or twenty in all came from about here and from Washingtonto see the prodigy in 'the Park of the Boar,' after the advertisementappeared. He wouldn't have anything to do with any of us. Pretended hedidn't understand our kind of Latin. I offered him a place, myself, ata wage of more denarii than I could well afford. I wanted a chance tostudy him. Then came the colonel and fairy grabbed him. So I sent foryou--in my artless professional way."
"Why such enthusiasm on the part of Colonel Graeme?"
"Simple enough. Livius spoke Latin with in accent which bore out the oldboy's contention. I believe they also agreed on the ablative absolute."
"Yes--er--naturally," drawled Average Jones. "Does our early Roman speakpretty ready Latin?"
"He's fairly fluent. Sometimes he stumbles a little on hisconstructions, and he's apt to be--well--monkish--rather than classicalwhen in full course."
"Doesn't wear the toga virilis, I suppose."
"Oh, no. Plain American clothes. It's only his inner man that's Roman,of course. He met with bump on the head--this is his story, and he'sgot a the scar to show for it--and when he came to, he'd lost grounda couple of thousand years and returned to his former existence.No English. No memory of who or what he'd been. No money connectionwhatsoever with the living world."
"Humph! Wonder if he's been a student of Kippling. You remember 'TheGreatest Story in the World; the reincarnated galley slave?' Now as tothis Colonel Graeme; has he ever published?"
"Yes. Two small pamphlets, issued by the Classicist Press, whichpublishes the Classical Weekly."
"Supporting his fads, I suppose."
"Right. He devoted one pamphlet to each."
Average Jones contemplated with absorbed attention an ant which wasmaking a laborious spiral ascent of his cane. Not until it had gained avantage point on the bone handle did he speak again.
"See here, Professor Warren: I'm a passionate devotee of the Latintongue. I have my deep and dark suspicions of our present modes ofpronunciation, all three of 'em. As for the ablative absolute, itsreconstruction and regeneration have been the inspiring principle of mystudious manhood. Humbly I have sat at the feet of Learning, enshrinedin the Ridgway Graeme pamphlets. I must meet Colonel Graeme--afterreading the pamphlets. I hope they're not long."
Warren frowned. "Colonel Graeme is a gentleman and my friend, Mr.Jones," he said with emphasis. "I won't have him made a butt."
"He shan't be, by me," said Average Jones quietly. "Has it perhapsstruck you, as his friend, that--er--a close daily association with thepsychic remnant of a Roman citizen might conceivably be non-conducive tohis best interest?"
"Yes, it has. I see your point. You want to approach him on his weakside. But, have you Latin enough to sustain the part? He's shrewd as aweasel in all matters of scholarship, though a child whom any one couldfool in practical affairs."
"No; I haven't," admitted Average Jones. "Therefore, I'm a mute. A shockin early childhood paralyzed my centers of speech. I talk to you by signlanguage, and you interpret."
"But I hardly know the deaf-mute alphabet."
"Nor I. But I'll waggle my fingers like lightning if he says anything tome requiring an answer, and you'll give the proper reply. Does ColonelGraeme implicitly credit the Romanism of his guest?"
"He does, because he wants to. To have an educated man of the classicperiod of the Latin tongue, a friend of Caesar, an auditor of Ciceroand a contemporary of Virgil, Horace and Ovid come back and speak inthe accent he's contended for, make a powerful support for his theories.He's at work on a supplementary thesis already."
"What do the other Latin men who've seen Livius, think of themetempsychosis claim?"
"They don't know. Livius explained his remote antecedents only afterhe had got Colonel Graeme's private ear. The colonel has kept it quiet.'Don't want a rabble of psychologists and soul-pokers worrying him todeath,' he says."
"Making it pretty plain sailing for the Roman. Well, arrange to take methere as soon as possible."'
At the Graeme house, Average Jones was received with simple courtesyby a thin rosy-cheeked old gentleman with a dagger-like imperial and adreamy eye, who, on Warren's introduction, made him free of the unkemptold place's hospitality. They conversed for a time, Average Jonesmaintaining his end with nods and gestures, and (ostensibly) through thedigital mediumship of his sponsor.
Presently Warren said to the host:
"And where is your visitor from the past?"
"Prowling among my books," answered the old gentleman.
"Are we not going to see him?"
The colonel looked a little embarrassed. "The fact is, Professor Warren,Livius has taken rather an aversion to you."
"I'm sorry. How so?"
A twinkle of malice shone in the old scholar's eye. "He says your Latinaccent frets his nerves," he explained.
"In that case," said Warren, obeying a quick signal from his accomplice,"I'll stroll in the garden, while you present Mr. Jones to Livius."
Colonel Graeme led the way to a lofty wing, once used as a drawing-room,but now the repository for thousands of books, which not only filled theshelves but were heaped up in every corner.
"I must apologize for this confusion, sir," said the host. "No one ispermitted to arrange my books but myself. And my efforts, I fear, serveonly to make confusion more confounded. There are four other rooms evenmore chaotic than this."
At the sound of his voice a man who had been seated behind a tumulusof volumes rose and stood. Average Jones looked at him keenly. He wasperhaps forty-five years of age, thin and sinewy, with a close-shavenface, pale blue eyes, and a narrow forehead running high into a mop ofgrizzled locks. Diagonally across the front part of the scalp a scarcould be dimly perceived through the hair. Average Jones glanced atthe stranger's hands, to gain, if possible, some hint of his formeremployment. With his faculty of swift observation, he noticed that thelong, slender fingers were not only mottled with dust, but also scuffed,and, in places, scarified, as if their owner had been hurriedly handlinga great number of books.
Colonel Graeme presented the new-comer in formal Latin. He bowed. Thescarred man made a curious gesture of the hand, addressing Average Jonesin an accent which, even to the young man's long-unaccustomed cars,sounded strange and strained.
"Di illi linguam astrinxere; mutus est," said Colonel Graeme, indicatingthe younger man, and added a sentence in sonorous metrical Greek.
Average Jones recalled the Aeschylean line. "Well, though 'a great oxhath stepped on my tongue,' it hasn't trodden out my eyes, praises be!"said he to himself as he caught the uneasy glance of the Roman.
By way of allaying suspicion, he scribbled upon a sheet of paper a fewcomplimentary Latin sentences, in which Warren had sedulously coachedhim for the occasion, and withdrew to the front room, where he waspresently joined by the Johns Hopkins man. Fortunately, the colonel gavethem a few moments together.
"Arrange for me to come here daily to study in the library," whisperedJones to the Latin professor.
The other nodded.
"Now, sit tight," added Jones.
He stepped, soft-footed, on the thick old rug, across to the librarydoor and threw it open. Just inside stood Livius, an expressionof startled anger on his thin face. Quickly recovering himself, heexplained, in his ready Latin, that he was about to enter and speak tohis patron.
"Shows a remarkable interest in possible conversation," whispered Jones,on his withdrawal, "for a man who understands no English. Also doesme the honor to suspect me. He must have been a wily chap--in theConsulship of Plancus."
Before leaving, Average Jones had received from Colonel Graeme a generalinvitation to spend as much time as he chose, studying among the books.The old man-servant, Saul, had orders to admit him at any hour. Hereturned to his hotel to write a courteous note of acknowledgment.
Many hours has Average Jones spent more tediously than those passed inthe cool seclusion of Colonel Ridgway Graeme's treasure-house of print.He burrowed among quaint accumulations of forgotten classics. He dippedwith astonishment into the savage and ultra-Rabelaisian satire of VonHutter's "Epistola, Obscurorum Virorumf" which set early sixteenthcentury Europe a-roar with laughter at the discomfited monks; and hecleansed himself from that tainted atmosphere in the fresh air and freeEnglish of a splendid Audubon "first"--and all the time he was consciousthat the Roman watched, watched, watched. More than, once Liviusoffered aid, seeking to apprise himself of the supposed mute's line ofinvestigation; but the other smilingly fended him off. At the end offour days, Average Jones had satisfied himself that if Livius wereseeking anything in particular, he had an indefinite task before him,for the colonel's bound treasures were in indescribable confusion.Apparently he had bought from far and near, without definite theme orpurpose. As he bought he read, and having read, cast aside; and where avolume fell, there it had license to lie. No cataloguer had ever soughtto restore order to that bibliographic riot. To seek any given bookmeant a blind voyage, without compass or chart, throughout the mingledcenturies.
Often Colonel Graeme spent hours in one or the other of the hugebook-rooms talking with his strange protege and making copious notes.Usually the old gentleman questioned and the other answered. But onemorning the attitude seemed, to the listening Ad-Visor, to be reversed.Livius, in the far corner of the room, was speaking in a low tone. Tojudge from the older man's impatient manner the Roman was interruptinghis host's current of queries with interrogations of his own. AverageJones made a mental note, and, in conference with Warren that evening,asked him to ascertain from Colonel Graeme whether Livius's inquirieshad indicated a specific interest in any particular line of reading.
On the following day, however, an event of more immediate importoccupied his mind. He had spent the morning in the up-stairs library, atthe unevadable suggestion of Colonel Graeme, while the colonel and hisRoman collogued below. Coming down about noon, Average Jones entered thecolonel's small study just in time to see Livius, who was alone in theroom, turn away sharply from the desk. His elbow was held close to hisribs in a peculiar manner. He was concealing something under his coat.With a pretense of clumsiness, Average Jones stumbled against him inpassing. Livius drew away, his high forehead working with suspicion.The Ad-Visor's expression of blank apology, eked out with a bow anda grimace, belied the busy-working mind within. For, in the moment'scontact, he had heard the crisp rustle of paper from beneath theill-fitting coat.
What paper had the man from B. C. taken furtively from his benefactor'stable? It must be large; otherwise he could have readily thrust it intohis pocket. No sooner was Livius out of the room than Average Jonesscanned the desk. His face lighted with a sudden smile. Colonel Graemenever read a newspaper; boasted, in fact, that he wouldn't have oneabout the place. But, as Average Jones distinctly recalled, he had,himself, that very morning brought, in a copy of the Globe and droppedit into the scrap basket near the writing-table. It was gone. Livius hadtaken it.
"If he's got the newspaper-reading habit," said Average Jones tohimself, "I'll set a trap for him. But Warren must furnish the bait."
He went to look up his aide. The conference between them was long andexhaustive, covering the main points of the case from the beginning.
"Did you find out from Colonel Graeme," inquired Average Jones, "whetherLivius, affected any particular brand of literature?"
"Yes. He seems to be specializing on late seventeenth century Britishclassicism. Apparently he considers that the flower of Britishscholarship of that time wrote a very inferior kind of dog Latin."
"Late seventeenth century Latinity," commented Average Jones."That--er--gives, us a fair start. Now as to the body-servant."
"Old Saul? I questioned him about strange callers. He said he rememberedonly two, besides an occasional peddler or agent. They were looking forwork."
"What kind of work?"
"Inside the house. One wanted to catalogue the library."
"What did he look like?"
"Saul says he wore glasses and a worse tall hat than the colonel's andhad a full beard."
"And the other?"
"Bookbinder and repairer. Wanted to fix up Colonel Graeme's collection.Youngish, smartly dressed, with a small waxed moustache."
"And our Livius is clean-shaven," murmured Average Jones. "How longapart did they call?"
"About two weeks. The second applicant came on the day of the lastsnowfall. I looked that up. It was March 27."
"Do you know, Warren," observed Average Jones, "I sometimes think thatpart of your talents, at least, are wasted in a chair of Latin."
"Certainly, there is more excitement in this hide-and-seek game, as youplay it, than in the pursuits of a musty pedant," admitted the other,crackling his large knuckles. "But when are we going to spring uponfriend Livius and strip him of his fake toga?"
"That's the easiest part of it. I've already caught him filling afountain-pen as if he'd been brought up on them, and humming thespinning chorus from The Flying Dutchman; not to mention the lifting ofmy newspaper."
"Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit," murmured Warren.
"No. As you say, no fellow can be on the job all the time. But ourproblem is not to catch Livius, but to find out what it is he's beenafter for the last three months."
"Three months? You're assuming that it was he who applied for work inthe library."
"Certainly. And when he failed at that he set about a very carefullydeveloped scheme to get at Colonel Graeme's books anyway. By inquirieshe found out the old gentleman's fad and proceeded to get in trainingfor it. You don't know, perhaps, that I have a corps of assistants whoclip, catalogue and file all unusual advertisements. Here is one whichthey turned up for me on my order to send me any queer educationaladvertisements: 'Wanted--Daily lessons in Latin speech from competentSpanish scholar. Write, Box 347, Banner office.' That is from the NewYork Banner of April third, shortly after the strange caller's secondabortive attempt to get into the Graeme library."
"I suppose our Livius figured out that Colonel Graeme's theory of accentwas about what a Spaniard would have. But he couldn't have learned allhis Latin in four months."
"He didn't. He was a scholar already; an accomplished one, who wentwrong through drink and became a crook, specializing in rare books andprints. His name is Enderby; you'll find it in the Harvard catalogue.He's supposed to be dead. My assistant traced him through hisSpanish-Latin teacher, a priest."
"
But even allowing for his scholarship, he must have put in a deal ofwork perfecting himself in readiness of speech and accent."
"So he did. Therefore the prize must be big. A man of Enderby's caliberdoesn't concoct a scheme of such ingenuity, and go into bondage with it,for nothing. Do you belong to the Cosmic Club?"
The assistant professor stared. "No," he said.
"I'd like to put you up there. One advantage of membership is that itsroster includes experts in every known line of erudition, from scarabsto skeeing. For example, I am now going to telegraph for aid from oldMillington, who seldom misses a book auction and is a human bibliographyof the wanderings of all rare volumes. I'm going to find out from himwhat British publication of the late seventeenth century in Latin isvery valuable; also what volumes of that time have changed hands in thelast six months."
"Colonel Graeme went to a big book auction in New York early in March,"volunteered Warren, "but he told me he didn't pick up anything ofparticular value."
"Then it's something he doesn't know about and Livius does. I'm going totake advantage of our Roman's rather un-B.-C.-like habit of reading thedaily papers by trying him out with this advertisement."
Average Jones wrote rapidly and tossed the result to his coadjutor whoread:
"LOST--Old book printed in Latin. Buff leather binding, a little faded ('It's safe to be that,' explained Average Jones). No great value except to owner. Return to Colonel Ridgway Graeme, 11 Carteret Street, and receive reward."
The advertisement made its appearance in big type on the front pages ofthe Baltimore paper of the following day. That evening Average Jones metWarren, for dinner, with a puckered brow.
"Did Livius rise to the bait?" asked the scholar.
"Did he!" chuckled Average Jones. "He's been nervous as a cat all dayand hardly has looked at the library. But what puzzles me is this." Heexhibited a telegram from New York.
"Millington says positively no book of that time and description anygreat value. Enderby at Barclay auction in March and made row over somebook which he missed because it was put up out of turn in catalogue.Barclay auctioneer thinks it was one of Percival privately bound books1680-1703. Am anonymous book of Percival library, De Meritis LibrorumBritannorum, was sold to Colonel Graeme for $47, a good price. When do Iget in on this?
"(Signed), ROBERT BERTRAM."
"I know that treatise," said Warren. "It isn't particularly rare."
Average Jones stared at the telegram in silence. Finally he drawled:"There are--er--books and--er--books--and--er--things in books. Waithere for me."
Three hours later he reappeared with collar wilted, but spirits elate,and abruptly announced:
"Warren, I'm a cobbler."
"A what?"
"A cobbler. Mend your boots, you know."
"Are you in earnest?"
"Certainly. Haven't you ever remarked that a serious-minded earnestnessalways goes with cobbling? Though I'm not really a practical cobbler,but a proprietary one. Our friend, Bertram, will dress and act thepractical part. I've wired him and he's replied, collect, accepting thejob. You and I will be in the background."
"Where?"
"NO. 27 Jasmine Street. Not a very savory locality. Why is it, Warren,that the beauty of a city street is generally in inverse ratio to thepoetic quality of its name? There I've hired the shop and stock of Mr.Hans Fichtel for two days, at the handsome rental of ten dollars perday. Mr. Fichtel purposes to take a keg of beer a-fishing. I think twodays will be enough."
"For the keg?"
"For that noble Roman, Livius. He'll be reading the papers pretty keenlynow. And in to-morrow's, he'll find this advertisement."
Average Jones read from a sheet of paper which he took from his pocket:
"FOUND--Old book in foreign language, probably Latin, marked 'Percival.' Owner may recover by giving satisfactory description of peculiar and obscure feature and refunding for advertisement. Fichtel, 27 Jasmine Street."
"What is the peculiar and obscure feature, Jones?" asked Warren.
"I don't know."
"How do you know there is any?"
"Must be something peculiar about the book or Enderby wouldn't putin four months of work on the chance of stealing it. And it must beobscure, otherwise the auctioneer would have spotted it."
"Sound enough!" approved the other. "What could it be? Some interpolatedpage?"
"Hardly. I've a treatise in my pocket on seventeenth centurybook-making, which I'm going to study to-night. Be ready for an earlystart to meet Bertram."
That languid and elegant gentleman arrived by the first morning train.He protested mightily when he was led to the humble shoe-shop. Heprotested more mightily when invited to don a leather apron and smudgehis face appropriately to his trade. His protests, waxing vehement andeventually profane, as he barked his daintily-kept fingers, in rehearsalfor giving a correct representation of an honest artisan cobbling aboot, died away when Average Jones explained to him that on pretense ofhaving found a rare book, he was to worm out of a cautious and probablysuspicious criminal the nature of some unique and hidden feature of thevolume.
"Trust me for diplomacy," said Bertram airily.
"I will because I've got to," retorted Average Jones. "Well, get towork. To you the outer shop: to Warren and me this rear room. And,remember, if you hear me whetting a knife, that means come at once."
Uncomfortably twisted into a supposedly professional posture, Bertramwrought with hammer and last, while putting off, with lame, blind andhalting, excuses, such as came to call for their promised footgear. Bya triumph of tact he had just disposed of a rancid-tongued femalewho demanded her husband's boots, a satisfactory explanation, or thearbitrament of the lists, when the bell tinkled and the two watchers inthe back room heard a nervous, cultivated voice say:
"Is Mr. Fichtel here?"
"That's me," said Bertram, landing an agonizing blow on his thumb-nail.
"You advertised that you had found an old book."
"Yes, sir. Somebody left it in the post-office."
"Ah; that must have been when I went to mail some letters to New York,"said the other glibly. "From the advertised description, the book iswithout doubt mine. Now as to the reward--"
"Excuse me, but you wouldn't expect me to give it up without anyidentification, sir?"
"Certainly not. It was the De Meritis Libror--"
"I can't read Latin, sir."
"But you could make that much out," said the visitor with risingexasperation. "Come; if it's a matter of the reward--how much?"
"I wouldn't mind having a good reward; say ten dollars. But I want tobe sure it's your book. There's something about it that you could easilytell me sir, for any one could see it."
"A very observing shoemaker," commented the other with a slight sneer."You mean the--the half split cover?"
"Swish-swish; whish-swish," sounded from the rear room.
"Excuse me," said Bertram, who had not ceased from his pretended work."I have to get a piece of leather."
He stepped into the back room where Average Jones, his face alight, heldup a piece of paper upon which he had hurriedly scrawled:
"Mss. bound into cover. Get it out of him. Tell him you've a brother whois a Latin scholar."
Bertram nodded, caught up a strip of calf-skin and returned.
"Yes, sir," he said, "the split cover and what's inside?"
The other started. "You didn't get it out?" he cried. "You didn't tearit!"
"No, sir. It's there safe enough. But some of it can be made out."
"You said you didn't read Latin."
"No, sir; but I have a brother that went through the Academy. He readsa little."' This was thin ice, but Bertram went forward with assumedassurance. "He thinks the manuscript is quite rare. Oh, Fritz! Come in."
"Any letter of Bacon's is rare, of course," returned the otherimpatiently. "Therefore, I purpose offering you fifty dollars reward."
He looked up as Ave
rage Jones entered. The young man's sleeves wererolled up, his face was generously smudged, and a strip of cobbler's waxbeneath the tipper lip, puffed and distorted the firm line of his mouth.Further, his head was louting low on his neck, so that the visitor gotno view sufficient for recognition.
"Lord Bacon's letter--er--must be pretty rare, Mister," he drawledthickly. "But a letter--er--from Lord Bacon--er--about Shakespeare--thatought to be worth a lot of money."
Average Jones had taken his opening with his customary incisiveshrewdness. The mention of Bacon had settled it, to his mind. Onlyone imaginable character of manuscript from the philosopherscholar-politician could have value enough to tempt a thief of Enderby'scalibre. Enderby's expression told that the shot was a true one. As forBertram, he had dropped his shoemaker's knife and his shoemaker's role.
"Bacon on Shakespeare! Shades of the departed glory of IgnatiusDonnelly!"
The visitor drew back. Warren's gaunt frame appeared in the doorway.Jones' head lifted.
"It ought to be as--er--unique," he drawled, "as an--er--Ancient Romanspeaking perfect English."
Like a flash, the false Livius caught up the knife from the bench wherethe false cobbler had dropped it and swung toward Average Jones. Atthe moment the ample hand of Professor Warren, bunched into a highlycompetent fist, flicked across and caught the assailant under theear. Enderby, alias Livius, fell as if smitten by a cestus. As his armtouched the floor, Average Jones kicked unerringly at the wrist and theknife flew and tinkled in a far corner. Bertram, with a bound, landed onthe fallen man's chest and pinned him.
"'Did he get you, Average?" he cried.
"Not--er--this time. Pretty good--er--team work," drawled the Ad-Visor."We've got our man for felonious assault, at least."
Enderby, panting under Bertram's solid knee, blinked and struggled.
"No use, Livius," said Average Jones. "Might as well quiet down andconfess. Ease up a little on him, Bert. Take a look at that scar of hisfirst though."
"Superficial cut treated with make-up paint; a clever job," pronouncedBertram after a quick examination.
"As I supposed," said Average Jones.
"Let me in on the deal," pleaded Livius. "That letter is worth tenthousand, twelve thousand, fifteen thousand dollars--anything you wantto ask, if you find the right purchaser. And you can't manage it withoutme. Let me in."
"Thinks we're crooks, too?" remarked Average Jones. "Exactly what's inthis wonderful letter?"
"It's from Bacon to the author of the book, who wrote about 1610. Baconprophesies that Shakespeare, 'this vagabond and humble mummer' wouldoutshine and outlive in fame all the genius of his time. That's all Icould make out by loosening the stitches."
"Well, that is worth anything one could demand," said Warren in asomewhat awed tone.
"Why didn't you get the letter when you were examining it at the auctionroom?" inquired Average Jones.
"Some fool of a binder had overlooked the double cover, and sewed it in.I noticed it at the auction, gummed the opening together while noone was watching, and had gone to get cash to buy the book; but theauctioneer put it up out of turn and old Graeme got it. Bring it to meand I'll show you the 'pursed' cover. Many of the Percival books werebound that way."
"We've never had it, nor seen it,"' replied Average Jones. "Theadvertisement was only a trap into which you stepped."
Enderby's jaw dropped. "Then it's still at the Graeme house," he cried,beating on the floor with his free hand. "Take me back there!"
"Oh, we'll take you," said Warren grimly.
Close-packed among them in a cab, they drove him back to CarteretStreet. Colonel Ridgway Graeme was at home and greeted them courteously.
"You've found Livius," he said, with relief. "I had begun to fear forhim."
"Colonel Graeme," began Average Jones, "you have--"
"What! Speech!" cried the old gentleman. "And you a mute! What does thismean?"
"Never mind him," broke in Enderby Livius. "There's something moreimportant."
But the colonel had shrunk back. "English from you, Livius!" he cried,setting his hand to his brow.
"All will be explained in time, Colonel," Warren assured him."Meanwhile, you have a document of the utmost importance and value. Doyou remember buying one of the Percival volumes at the Barclay auction?"
The collector drew his brows down in an effort to remember.
"An octavo, in fairly good condition?" he asked.
"Yes, yes!" cried Enderby eagerly. "Where is it? What did you do withit?"
"It was in Latin--very false Latin." The four men leaned forward,breathless. "Oh, I remember. It slipped from my pocket and fell into theriver as I was crossing the ferry to Jersey."
There was a dead, flat, stricken silence. Then Average Jones turnedhollow eyes upon Warren.
"Professor," he said, with a rueful attempt at a smile, "what's the pastparticiple, passive, plural, of the Latin verb, 'to sting'?"
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