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Updated: June 26, 2025
Chantel examined his finger-tips as though for some defect; then, snatching up the cards, shuffled and dealt with intense precision. The game went on as before. "I read alzo," stammered Wutzler, like a timid scholar encouraged to lecture, "I read zo how your Englishman, Rawf Ralli, he spreadt der fine clock for your Queen, and lern your Queen smoking, no?"
Cadging for chow, does one acquire merit?" retorted Heywood, over his shoulder. "You talk like a bonze, Wutz." He winked. "I'd rather hear the sing-song box." "Ach so, I forget!" Still whimpering, Wutzler dragged something from a corner, squatted, and jerked at a crank, with a noise of ratchets. "She blay not so moch now," he snuffled.
The alley was too dark for speed. Heywood ran on, fell, rose and ran, fell again, losing his spear. A pair of trembling hands eagerly helped him to his feet. "My cozin's boy, he ron quick," said Wutzler. "Dose fellows, dey not catch him! Kom." They threaded the gloom swiftly.
"No dinner!" he snapped. "Catchee bymby, though. We must see Wutzler first. To lose sight of any man for twenty-four hours, nowadays, Well, it's not hardly fair. Is it?" They turned down a black lane, carpeted with dry rubbish.
At the gate, Wutzler held aloft his glow-worm lantern. "Dose fellows catch me?" he mumbled, "Der plagues dey will forget me. All zo many shoots, kugel, der bullet, 'gilt's mir, oder gilt es dir? Men are dead in der Silk-Weafer Street. Dey haf hong up nets, and dorns, to keep out der plague's-goblins off deir house. Listen, now, dey beat gongs! But we are white men. You you tell me zo, to-night!"
Only Heywood maintained a febrile gayety, interrupting the game perversely, stirring old Wutzler to incoherent speech. "What's that about Rome?" he asked. "You were saying?" "Rome is safed!" cried the outcast, with sudden enthusiasm. "In your paper Tit-bit, I read. How dey climb der walls op, yes, but Rome is safed by a flook of geeze. Gracious me, der History iss great sopjeck! I lern moch.
The suit is certainly brought by Fang the scholar, whom they call the Sword-Pen." "That much," said Heywood, "I could have told you." Wutzler glanced behind him fearfully, as though the flickering shadows might hear. "But there is more. Since dark I ran everywhere, watching, listening to gossip. I painted my skin with mangrove-bark water. You know this sign?"
"No, they are still shooting," he answered, and limped onward, skirting the uproar. At last, when by pale stars above the smoke and flame and sparks, Rudolph judged that they were somewhere north of the nunnery, they came stumbling down into a hollow encumbered with round, swollen obstacles. Like a patch of enormous melons, oil-jars lay scattered. "Hide here, and wait," commanded Wutzler.
"No: not so. Say it exactly, after me." They held a hurried catechism in the dark. "There," sighed Wutzler, at last, "that is as much as we can hope. Do not forget. They will pass you through hidden ways. But you are very rash. It is not too late to go home." Receiving no answer, he sighed more heavily, and gave a complicated knock. Bars clattered within, and a strip of dim light widened.
He had left the firing-line, crawled away in the dark, and found a quiet spot to die in. "So! This is good luck!" Wutzler doffed his coolie hat, slid out of his jacket, tossed both down among the oil-jars, and stooping over the dead man, began to untwist the scarlet turban. In the dim light his lean arms and frail body, coated with black hair, gave him the look of a puny ape robbing a sleeper.
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