The Man on the Box Read online

  Produced by Duncan Harold, Charles Franks and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team.

  Henry E. Dixey in "The Man on the Box."]

  THE MAN ON THE BOX

  by

  HAROLD MACGRATH

  Author of The Grey Cloak, The Puppet Crown

  Illustrated by scenes from Walter N. Lawrence's beautiful production ofthe play as seen for 123 nights at the Madison Square Theatre, New York

  To Miss Louise Everts

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I Introduces My Hero

  II Introduces My Heroine

  III The Adventure Begins

  IV A Family Reunion

  V The Plot Thickens

  VI The Man on the Box

  VII A Police Affair

  VIII Another Salad Idea

  IX The Heroine Hires a Groom

  X Pirate

  XI The First Ride

  XII A Ticklish Business

  XIII A Runaway

  XIV An Ordeal or Two

  XV Retrospective

  XVI The Previous Affair

  XVII Dinner is Served

  XVIII Caught!

  XIX "Oh, Mister Butler"

  XX The Episode of the Stove Pipe

  XXI The Rose

  XXII The Drama Unrolls

  XXIII Something About Heroes

  XXIV A Fine Lover

  XXV A Fine Heroine, Too

  XXVI The Castle of Romance

  _He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small,Who dares not put it to the touch To win or lose it all._

  _Dramatis Personae_

  _Colonel George Annesley_ A retired Army Officer

  _Miss Betty Annesley_ His daughter

  _Lieutenant Robert Warburton_ Lately resigned

  _Mr. John Warburton_ His elder brother, of the War Department

  _Mrs. John Warburton_ The elder brother's wife

  _Miss Nancy Warburton_ The lieutenant's sister

  _Mr. Charles Henderson_ Her fiance

  _Count Karloff_ An unattached diplomat

  _Colonel Frank Raleigh_ The Lieutenant's Regimental Colonel

  _Mrs. Chadwick_ A product of Washington life

  _Monsieur Pierre_ A chef

  _Mademoiselle Celeste_ A lady's maid

  _Jane_ Mrs. Warburton's maid

  _The Hopeful_ A baby

  _William_ A stable-boy

  _Fashionable People_ Necessary for a dinner party

  _Celebrities_ Also necessary for a dinner party

  _Unfashionables_ Police, cabbies, grooms, clerks, etc.

  TIME--Within the past ten years.

  SCENE--Washington, D.C., and its environs.

  I

  INTRODUCES MY HERO

  If you will carefully observe any map of the world that is divided intoinches at so many miles to the inch, you will be surprised as youcalculate the distance between that enchanting Paris of France and thethird-precinct police-station of Washington, D. C, which is notenchanting. It is several thousand miles. Again, if you will take thepains to run your glance, no doubt discerning, over the police-blotterat the court (and frankly, I refuse to tell you the exact date of thiswhimsical adventure), you will note with even greater surprise that allthis hubbub was caused by no crime against the commonwealth of theRepublic or against the person of any of its conglomerate people. Theblotter reads, in heavy simple fist, "disorderly conduct," a phrasewhich is almost as embracing as the word diplomacy, or society, orrespectability.

  So far as my knowledge goes, there is no such a person as JamesOsborne. If, by any unhappy chance, he _does_ exist, I trust that hewill pardon the civil law of Washington, my own measure of familiarity,and the questionable taste on the part of my hero--hero, because, fromthe rise to the fall of the curtain, he occupies the center of thestage in this little comedy-drama, and because authors have yet to finda happy synonym for the word. The name James Osborne was given for thesimple reason that it was the first that occurred to the culprit'smind, so desperate an effort did he make to hide his identity.Supposing, for the sake of an argument in his favor, supposing he hadsaid John Smith or William Jones or John Brown? To this very day hewould have been hiring lawyers to extricate him from libel andfalse-representation suits. Besides, had he given any of these names,would not that hound-like scent of the ever suspicious police have beenaroused?

  To move round and round in the circle of commonplace, and then to popout of it like a tailed comet! Such is the history of many a man'slife. I have a near friend who went away from town one fall, happy andcontented with his lot. And what do you suppose he found when hereturned home? He had been nominated for alderman. It is too early topredict the fate of this unhappy man. And what tools Fate uses withwhich to carve out her devious peculiar patterns! An Apache Indian,besmeared with brilliant greases and smelling of the water that neverfreezes, an understudy to Cupid? Fudge! you will say, or Pshaw! orwhatever slang phrase is handy and, prevalent at the moment you readand run.

  I personally warn you that this is a really-truly story, though I donot undertake to force you to believe it; neither do I purvey manygrains of salt. If Truth went about her affairs laughing, how many morepersons would turn and listen! For my part, I believe it all nonsensethe way artists have pictured Truth. The idea is pretty enough, but sofar as hitting things, it recalls the woman, the stone, and the hen. Iam convinced that Truth goes about dressed in the dowdiest of clothes,with black-lisle gloves worn at the fingers, and shoes run down in theheels, an exact portrait of one of Phil May's lydies. Thus it is thatwe pass her by, for the artistic sense in every being is repelled atthe sight of a dowdy with weeping eyes and a nose that has been rubbedtill it is as red as a winter apple. Anyhow, if she _does_ go about inbeautiful nudity, she ought at least to clothe herself with smiles andlaughter. There are sorry enough things in the world as it is, withouta lachrymal, hypochondriacal Truth poking her face in everywhere.

  Not many months ago, while seated on the stone veranda in the rear ofthe Metropolitan Club in Washington (I believe we were discussing themerits of some very old product), I recounted some of the lighterchapters of this adventure.

  _"Eempossible!"_ murmured the Russian attache, just as if the matterhad not come under his notice semi-officially.

  I presume that this exclamation disclosed another side to diplomacy,which, stripped of its fine clothes, means dexterity in hiding secretsand in negotiating lies. When one diplomat believes what another says,it is time for the former's government to send him packing. However,the Englishman at my right gazed smiling into his partly emptied glassand gently stirred the ice. I admire the English diplomat; he neverwastes a lie. He is frugal and saving.

  "But the newspapers!" cried the journalist. "They never ran a line; andan exploit like this would scarce have escaped them."

  "If I remember rightly, it was reported in the regular police items ofthe day," said I.

  "Strange that the boys didn't look behind the scenes."

  "Oh, I don't know," remarked the congressman; "lots of things happen ofwhich you are all ignorant. The public mustn't know everything."

  "But what's the hero's name?" asked the journalist.

  "That's a secret," I answered. "Besides, when it comes to the bottom ofthe matter, I had something to do with the suppressing of the policenews. In a case like this, suppression becomes a law not excelled bythat which governs self-preservation. My friend has a bro
ther in theWar Department; and together we worked wonders."

  "It's a jolly droll story, however you look at it," the Englishmanadmitted.

  "Nevertheless, it had its tragic side; but that is even more than evera secret."

  The Englishman looked at me sharply, even gravely; but the veranda isonly dimly illuminated at night, and his scrutiny went unrewarded.

  "Eh, well!" said the Russian; "your philosopher has observed that allmankind loves a lover."

  "As all womankind loves a love-story," the Englishman added. "You oughtto be very successful with the ladies,"--turning to me.

  "Not inordinately; but I shall not fail to repeat your epigram,"--and Irose.

  My watch told me that it was half after eight; and one does not receiveevery day an invitation to a dinner-dance at the Chevy Chase Club.

  I dislike exceedingly to intrude my own personality into thisnarrative, but as I was passively concerned, I do not see how I canavoid it. Besides, being a public man, I am not wholly averse topublicity; first person, singular, perpendicular, as Thackeray had it,in type looks rather agreeable to the eye. And I rather believe that Ihave a moral to point out and a parable to expound.

  My appointment in Washington at that time was extraordinary; that is tosay, I was a member of one of those committees that are born frequentlyand suddenly in Washington, and which almost immediately afterregistration in the vital statistics of national politics. I had beensent to Congress, a dazzling halo over my head, the pride and hope ofmy little country town; I had been defeated for second term; had beenrecommended to serve on the committee aforesaid; served with honor, gotmy name in the great newspapers, and was sent back to Congress, where Iam still to-day, waiting patiently for a discerning president and avacancy in the legal department of the cabinet. That's about all I amwilling to say about myself.

  As for this hero of mine, he was the handsomest, liveliest rascal youwould expect to meet in a day's ride. By handsome I do not mean perfectfeatures, red cheeks, Byronic eyes, and so forth. That style of beautybelongs to the department of lady novelists. I mean that peculiar manlybeauty which attracts men almost as powerfully as it does women. Forthe sake of a name I shall call him Warburton. His given name in actuallife is Robert. But I am afraid that nobody but his mother and oneother woman ever called him Robert. The world at large dubbed him Bob,and such he will remain up to that day (and may it be many yearshence!) when recourse will be had to Robert, because "Bob" wouldcertainly look very silly on a marble shaft.

  What a friendly sign is a nickname! It is always a good fellow who iscalled Bob or Bill, Jack or Jim, Tom, Dick or Harry. Even out ofTheodore there comes a Teddy. I know in my own case the boys used tocall me Chuck, simply because I was named Charles. (I haven't theslightest doubt that I was named Charles because my good mother thoughtI looked something like Vandyke's _Charles I_, though at the time of mybaptism I wore no beard whatever.) And how I hated a boy with ahigh-sounding, unnicknamable given name!--with his round white collarand his long glossy curls! I dare say he hated the name, the collar,and the curls even more than I did. Whenever you run across a namecarded in this stilted fashion, "A. Thingumy Soandso", you may make upyour mind at once that the owner is ashamed of his first name and istrying manfully to live it down and eventually forgive his parents.

  Warburton was graduated from West Point, ticketed to a desolatefrontier post, and would have worn out his existence there but for hisguiding star, which was always making frantic efforts to bolt itsestablished orbit. One day he was doing scout duty, perhaps half a milein advance of the pay-train, as they called the picturesque caravanwhich, consisting of a canopied wagon and a small troop of cavalry indingy blue, made progress across the desert-like plains of Arizona. Thetroop was some ten miles from the post, and as there had been no signof Red Eagle all that day, they concluded that the rumor of his beingon a drunken rampage with half a dozen braves was only a rumor.Warburton had just passed over a roll of earth, and for a moment thepay-train had dropped out of sight. It was twilight; opalescent wavesof heat rolled above the blistered sands. A pale yellow sky, like aninverted bowl rimmed with delicate blue and crimson hues, encompassedthe world. The bliss of solitude fell on him, and, being something of apoet, he rose to the stars. The smoke of his corncob pipe trailedlazily behind him. The horse under him was loping along easily.Suddenly the animal lifted his head, and his brown ears went forward.

  At Warburton's left, some hundred yards distant, was a clump of osagebrush. Even as he looked, there came a puff of smoke, followed by theevil song of a bullet. My hero's hat was carried away. He wheeled, dughis heels into his horse, and cut back over the trail. There came asecond flash, a shock, and then a terrible pain in the calf of his leftleg. He fell over the neck of his horse to escape the third bullet. Hecould see the Apache as he stood out from behind the bush. Warburtonyanked out his Colt and let fly. He heard a yell. It was verycomforting. That was all he remembered of the skirmish.

  For five weeks he languished in the hospital. During that time he cameto the conclusion that he had had enough of military life in the West.He applied for his discharge, as the compulsory term of service was atan end. When his papers came he was able to get about with the aid of acrutch. One morning his colonel entered his subaltern's bachelorquarters.

  "Wouldn't you rather have a year's leave of absence, than quitaltogether, Warburton?"

  "A year's leave of absence?" cried the invalid, "I am likely to getthat, I am."

  "If you held a responsible position I dare say it would be difficult.As it is, I may say that I can obtain it for you. It will be monthsbefore you can ride a horse with that leg."

  "I thank you, Colonel Raleigh, but I think I'll resign. In fact, I haveresigned."

  "We can withdraw that, if you but say the word. I don't want to loseyou, lad. You're the only man around here who likes a joke as well as Ido. And you will have a company if you'll only stick to it a littlelonger."

  "I have decided, Colonel. I'm sorry you feel like this about it. Yousee, I have something like twenty-five thousand laid away. I want tosee at least five thousand dollars' worth of new scenery before Ishuffle off this mortal coil. The scenery around here palls on me. Mythroat and eyes are always full of sand. I am off to Europe. Some day,perhaps, the bee will buzz again; and when it does, I'll have you gopersonally to the president."

  "As you please, Warburton."

  "Besides, Colonel, I have been reading Treasure Island again, and I'vegot the fever in my veins to hunt for adventure, even a treasure. It'sin my blood to wander and do strange things, and here I've beenhampered all these years with routine. I shouldn't care if we had agood fight once in a while. My poor old dad traveled around the worldthree times, and I haven't seen anything of it but the maps."

  "Go ahead, then. Only, talking about Treasure Island, don't you andyour twenty-five thousand run into some old Long John Silver."

  "I'll take care."

  And Mr. Robert packed up his kit and sailed away. Not many monthspassed ere he met his colonel again, and under rather embarrassingcircumstances.