The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
our little episode in the bar, we have found out that the beggar had been drinking before he came in. And when he gets into the condition of 'drink-taken'—I gather he never gets drunk—he is a very ugly customer. He man-handled a sailor who annoyed him on his dahabeah the other night and nearly killed him. And his principal hatred is for the English. I trust most fervently that we shall renew our friendship in Khartoum."
And the grin had faded from his face.
* * * * *
And now I come to the second and final act of the drama. It is the first time that the facts have been put on paper, though many shrewd guesses as to what occurred were made by officers of the Royal South Sussex who were quartered at Khartoum. They were interested in the matter—very interested, since it was in their mess that the insult took place. And I can still see that ring of brown-skinned alert men in mess-kit standing motionless in the ante-room, with blazing eyes and clenched fists: I can still hear the C.O.'s quiet word of warning—"Gentlemen."
But one thing I would say at the beginning, if by any chance these words should meet the eye of anyone who was present that night: there can't be many, for the battalion ceased to be a battalion at Festubert in '15. Von Tarnim of the 3rd Regiment of the Prussian Guard was a sahib. He was forced into an invidious position against his will, simply because he was a Prussian officer, and there was no one else to take his place.
But I am jumping ahead. Four weeks after we left Cairo—Jim and I—we returned to Khartoum. On the way through we had dined with the South Sussex, and at dinner Jim had hinted to the Colonel the nature of his business.
The next day we went into the wilds, and of the next three weeks there is nothing to tell. Jim talked to many strange, dignified men in their own lingo—and every one of them seemed to know him as an old friend. They suggested sport; they promised us wonderful shooting; but Jim smiled and refused, and pushed on deeper into the desert.
And then came the day when we turned and retraced our steps. The job he had been sent to do was done; the results were locked in Jim's brain. He wasn't communicative, and I didn't ask questions—but there was a pleased twinkle in his eye, and I knew he was satisfied with his work. Only once did he allude to it, and that was the night before we reached Khartoum. "I think, old son," he remarked, "that we have euchred the dear Baron."
Next evening we arrived, and dined quietly at the hotel. And after dinner we strolled over to the South Sussex mess. That the Baron was dining there as an official guest we had no idea; that the Baron had interviewed a tall, stately Prince of the desert during the course of the day, and had met with a suave but perfectly firm refusal to certain propositions he had advanced, we had even less idea. It was the first fruits of Jim's mission, and the immediate result had been to throw the Baron into a white heat of rage. The concessions had not gone a month ago, he roared furiously; how did it happen they had gone now? And the grave Bedouin had shrugged his shoulders and stalked from the room.
The immediate result also was that Baron Stockmar arrived at the South Sussex mess for dinner still in the same mood. From certain non-committal remarks made by the Arab during their interview, he had gathered that the same refusal would meet him from every quarter, and the Baron was not the type of man to take such a thing lying down.
To have failed absolutely in what he had specially decided to do was an unusual experience for him, and his mood at dinner was one of smouldering passion. It was an official invitation, but he made no attempt at even ordinary politeness, and a general desire to sling the swine out of the mess became prevalent before the soup was finished. But one thing the Baron did do with gusto, he punished the excellent South Sussex champagne till even the Colonel—hospitable sportsman though he was—began to look uneasy.
Then came the first unpleasant episode. The cloths were removed; the wine had been passed round, and officers with their glasses untouched were waiting for the toast of "The King."
The Colonel rose and addressed the Vice-President. "Mr. Vice— the King."
"Gentlemen—the King."
Every officer rose—but not so the Baron. I was told all this after by one of the subalterns. There were a few moments of icy silence, while the band-sergeant, his honest face the colour of a beetroot with rage, glared at the offender and kept his band silent. Then the Colonel spoke quietly, and the second-in-command, an officer of choleric temper, plucked feverishly at his collar as if it were choking him.
"We are about to drink the health of our King, Baron Stockmar," said the Colonel. "May I request you to stand up."
The Baron rose. There was something in the ring of furious men who were staring at him that warned even his drink-bemused brain not to go too far. He rose, and the King was played—but the episode did not improve the harmony of the evening.
And it was into this atmosphere that in all ignorance Jim and I blundered later on. The Baron was sitting with his back to us as we came in, drinking his third brandy and soda since dinner, and we neither of us noticed him. All we saw was a bunch of officers looking about as cheerful as a crowd of deaf- mutes, and Jim looked at them in surprise.
"Why so merry and bright?" he cried cheerfully. "Having returned from a most successful trip in the wilds, and seen all my old pals— amongst 'em Mahomet Ali—we've come up to play hunt the slipper."
And Mahomet Ali was the man whom the Baron had seen that afternoon.
He rose from his chair and turned round facing Jim. Whether or not he realised that it was Jim who had forestalled him, I do not know, but on his face was the look of a maniac. What vestige of restraint he had imposed on himself during the evening vanished; for the moment the man was mad. It was the first time he had seen Jim since the episode at Shepheard's, and he walked towards him swaying slightly.
"You struck me a little while ago," he said thickly. "Then you ran like a coward and an Englishman. Will this force you to give me the satisfaction one gentleman demands of another?"
And he flung the contents of his glass straight in Jim's face.
A suppressed murmur ran through the ante-room, and it was then that the Colonel's quiet word "Gentlemen" came as a douche of cold water; for passion was running high and ugly, and even the padre was muttering unprintable things under his breath. In fact the only man in the room who seemed completely unmoved was Jim. With exaggerated nonchalance he mopped his face with his handkerchief, then he polished his eyeglass and replaced it.
"Dear me, Colonel," he remarked at length, "I wondered what had become of that gorilla I caught on my trip. But really I can't congratulate you on the manners you've taught it. I shall have to take the coarse brute in hand myself."
With a snarl like a beast the Baron hurled himself at Jim, and for a moment my heart stood still. Immensely powerful though Jim was, at close quarters with this human monstrosity he could not have stood a chance. But once again I'd reckoned without my man. Even as he spoke he had been measuring the distance with his eye, and had moved back a couple of paces. And as Baron Stockmar rushed at him, Jim dived forward and tackled him below the knees. It was a perfect Rugby tackle, and the Baron's head in falling hit the edge of the piano. And they left him where he lay.
"That is the second time, sir," said Jim to the Colonel. "The world is not big enough for this gentleman."
"Careful, Jim," said the Colonel. "For God's sake don't get yourself into any trouble, old boy."
"You can't go having any fool tricks with revolvers, Jim," said the second-in-command. "Duelling ain't allowed in His Majesty's domain."
"Nevertheless, Tubby, old man," said Jim quietly, "I shall deal with him. Shall we leave it at that? I don't think you had better ask any questions."
And at that moment the Baron staggered to his feet.
"You will hear further from me, sir," he said shakily.
"I should hate to think so," answered Jim coldly. "There's the door."
No one spoke till the sound of his swaying footsteps had died away; then the Colonel again shook his head.
"Jim,"