The Puppet Crown [79]
ill reports added to his popularity. To be popular in this whimsical world of ours, one has either to be very good or very bad. Johann was not unwilling to speak. Stuler had given him the cue; the cuirassiers. His advice was secretly to arm and hold in readiness. As this was the substance of the other speeches, Johann received his meed of applause.
"And let us not forget the bulldog; let us kill him, too," cried one of the auditors; "the prodigal bulldog, who has lived on our fatted calves."
This was unanimously adopted. The bulldog was not understood; and he smacked of the English. Then, too, the bulldog roamed too freely in the royal enclosures; and, until late years, trespassers fared badly. The students considered that their privileges extended everywhere; the dog, not being conversant with these privileges, took that side which in law is called the benefit of a doubt.
After his speech Johann retired to the bar-room. What he desired most of all was a replenished purse. Popular he was; but the students knew his failings, among which stood prominently that of a forgetful borrower. They would buy him drinks, clothes and food, if need be, but they would not lend him a stiver. And he could not borrow from Stuler, whose law was only to trust. Johann gambled, and wine always brought back the mad fever for play. The night before he had lost rather heavily, and he wanted to recover his losses. Rouge-et-noir had pinched him; he would be revenged on the roulette. All day long combinations and numbers danced before his eyes. He had devised several plans by which to raise money, but these had fallen through. Suddenly he smiled, and beckoned to Stuler.
"Stuler, how much will you advance me," he asked, "on a shotgun worth one hundred crowns?"
"A shotgun worth one hundred crowns? Ten."
Johann made a negative gesture. "Fifty or none. You can sell it for seventy-five in the morning. So could I, only I want the money to-night."
"If you want wine--" began Stuler.
"I want money."
Stuler scratched his nose. "Bring the gun to me. If it is worth what you say, I'll see what I can do."
"In an hour;" and Johann went out. A cold thin rain was falling, and a dash of it in the face had a cooling effect. Somehow, the exhilaration of the wine was gone, and his mood took a sullen turn. Money! he was ever in need of money. He cursed his ill luck. He cursed the cause of it--drink. But for drink he would not have been plain Johann Kopf, brawler, outcast, spy, disowned by his family and all save those who could use him. He remained standing in the doorway, brooding.
At last he drew his collar about his throat and struck off, a black shadow in a bank of gray. When he reached that part of the street opposite the Grand Hotel, he stopped and sought shelter under an awning. The night patrol came clattering down the street. It passed quickly, and soon all was still again. Johann stepped out and peered up and down. The street was deserted. All the hotel windows were in gloom, save a feeble light which beamed from the office windows.
Would it be robbery? He had not yet stooped to that. But he could hear the ivory ball clatter as it fell into the lucky numbers. He had a premonition that he would win if he stuck to a single combination. He would redeem the gun, replace it, and no one would be any the wiser. If his numbers failed him. . . . . No matter. He determined to cross the Rubicon. He traversed the street and disappeared into the cavernous alley, shortly to loom up in the deserted courtyard of the hotel. He counted the windows on the first floor and stopped at the fourth. That was the window he must enter. Noiselessly he crept along the walls, stopping now and then to listen. There was no sound except the monotonous dripping of the rain, which was growing thinner and colder.
Presently he came across the ladder he was seeking. He raised it to the required height, and once more placed his hand to his ear. Silence. He mounted the rounds to the window, which he found
"And let us not forget the bulldog; let us kill him, too," cried one of the auditors; "the prodigal bulldog, who has lived on our fatted calves."
This was unanimously adopted. The bulldog was not understood; and he smacked of the English. Then, too, the bulldog roamed too freely in the royal enclosures; and, until late years, trespassers fared badly. The students considered that their privileges extended everywhere; the dog, not being conversant with these privileges, took that side which in law is called the benefit of a doubt.
After his speech Johann retired to the bar-room. What he desired most of all was a replenished purse. Popular he was; but the students knew his failings, among which stood prominently that of a forgetful borrower. They would buy him drinks, clothes and food, if need be, but they would not lend him a stiver. And he could not borrow from Stuler, whose law was only to trust. Johann gambled, and wine always brought back the mad fever for play. The night before he had lost rather heavily, and he wanted to recover his losses. Rouge-et-noir had pinched him; he would be revenged on the roulette. All day long combinations and numbers danced before his eyes. He had devised several plans by which to raise money, but these had fallen through. Suddenly he smiled, and beckoned to Stuler.
"Stuler, how much will you advance me," he asked, "on a shotgun worth one hundred crowns?"
"A shotgun worth one hundred crowns? Ten."
Johann made a negative gesture. "Fifty or none. You can sell it for seventy-five in the morning. So could I, only I want the money to-night."
"If you want wine--" began Stuler.
"I want money."
Stuler scratched his nose. "Bring the gun to me. If it is worth what you say, I'll see what I can do."
"In an hour;" and Johann went out. A cold thin rain was falling, and a dash of it in the face had a cooling effect. Somehow, the exhilaration of the wine was gone, and his mood took a sullen turn. Money! he was ever in need of money. He cursed his ill luck. He cursed the cause of it--drink. But for drink he would not have been plain Johann Kopf, brawler, outcast, spy, disowned by his family and all save those who could use him. He remained standing in the doorway, brooding.
At last he drew his collar about his throat and struck off, a black shadow in a bank of gray. When he reached that part of the street opposite the Grand Hotel, he stopped and sought shelter under an awning. The night patrol came clattering down the street. It passed quickly, and soon all was still again. Johann stepped out and peered up and down. The street was deserted. All the hotel windows were in gloom, save a feeble light which beamed from the office windows.
Would it be robbery? He had not yet stooped to that. But he could hear the ivory ball clatter as it fell into the lucky numbers. He had a premonition that he would win if he stuck to a single combination. He would redeem the gun, replace it, and no one would be any the wiser. If his numbers failed him. . . . . No matter. He determined to cross the Rubicon. He traversed the street and disappeared into the cavernous alley, shortly to loom up in the deserted courtyard of the hotel. He counted the windows on the first floor and stopped at the fourth. That was the window he must enter. Noiselessly he crept along the walls, stopping now and then to listen. There was no sound except the monotonous dripping of the rain, which was growing thinner and colder.
Presently he came across the ladder he was seeking. He raised it to the required height, and once more placed his hand to his ear. Silence. He mounted the rounds to the window, which he found