West appeared at the door, winking with much mystery, and motioned Trent to enter. Braith, who was painting in bed to keep warm, looked up, laughed, and shook hands.

“Any news?”

The perfunctory question was answered as usual by: “Nothing but the cannon.”

Trent sat down on the bed.

“Where on earth did you get that?” he demanded, pointing to a half-finished chicken nestling in a wash-basin.

West grinned.

“Are you millionaires, you two? Out with it.”

Braith, looking a little ashamed, began, “Oh, it’s one of West’s exploits,” but was cut short by West, who said he would tell the story himself.

“You see, before the siege, I had a letter of introduction to a ‘_type_’ here, a fat banker, German-American variety. You know the species, I see. Well, of course I forgot to present the letter, but this morning, judging it to be a favourable opportunity, I called on him.

“The villain lives in comfort;—fires, my boy!—fires in the ante-rooms! The Buttons finally condescends to carry my letter and card up, leaving me standing in the hallway, which I did not like, so I entered the first room I saw and nearly fainted at the sight of a banquet on a table by the fire. Down comes Buttons, very insolent. No, oh, no, his master, ‘is not at home, and in fact is too busy to receive letters of introduction just now; the siege, and many business difficulties—’

“I deliver a kick to Buttons, pick up this chicken from the table, toss my card on to the empty plate, and addressing Buttons as a species of Prussian pig, march out with the honours of war.”

Trent shook his head.

“I forgot to say that Hartman often dines there, and I draw my own conclusions,” continued West. “Now about this chicken, half of it is for Braith and myself, and half for Colette, but of course you will help me eat my part because I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I,” began Braith, but Trent, with a smile at the pinched faces before him, shook his head saying, “What nonsense! You know I’m never hungry!”

West hesitated, reddened, and then slicing off Braith’s portion, but not eating any himself, said good-night, and hurried away to number 470 rue Serpente, where lived a pretty girl named Colette, orphan after Sedan, and Heaven alone knew where she got the roses in her cheeks, for the siege came hard on the poor.

“That chicken will delight her, but I really believe she’s in love with West,” said Trent. Then walking over to the bed: “See here, old man, no dodging, you know, how much have you left?”

The other hesitated and flushed.

“Come, old chap,” insisted Trent.

Braith drew a purse from beneath his bolster, and handed it to his friend with a simplicity that touched him.

“Seven sons,” he counted; “you make me tired! Why on earth don’t you come to me? I take it d——d ill, Braith! How many times must I go over the same thing and explain to you that because I have money it is my duty to share it, and your duty and the duty of every American to share it with me? You can’t get a cent, the city’s blockaded, and the American Minister has his hands full with all the German riff-raff and deuce knows what! Why don’t you act sensibly?”

“I—I will, Trent, but it’s an obligation that perhaps I can never even in part repay, I’m poor and—”

“Of course you’ll pay me! If I were a usurer I would take your talent for security. When you are rich and famous—”

“Don’t, Trent—”

“All right, only no more monkey business.”

He slipped a dozen gold pieces into the purse, and tucking it again under the mattress smiled at Braith.

“How old are you?” he demanded.

“Sixteen.”

Trent laid his hand lightly on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m twenty-two, and I have the rights of a grandfather as far as you are concerned. You’ll do as I say until you’re twenty-one.”

“The siège will be over then, I hope,” said Braith, trying to laugh, but the prayer in their hearts: “How long, O Lord, how long!” was answered by the swift scream of a shell soaring among the storm-clouds of that December night.

II

West, standing in the doorway of a house in the rue Serpentine, was speaking angrily. He said he didn’t care whether Hartman liked it or not; he was telling him, not arguing with him.

“You call yourself an American!” he sneered; “Berlin and hell are full of that kind of American. You come loafing about Colette with your pockets stuffed with white bread and beef, and a bottle of wine at thirty francs and you can’t really afford to give a dollar to the American Ambulance and Public Assistance, which Braith does, and he’s half starved!”

Hartman retreated to the curbstone, but West followed him, his face like a thunder-cloud. “Don’t you dare to call yourself a countryman of mine,” he growled,—“no,—nor an artist either! Artists don’t worm themselves into the service of the Public Defence where they do nothing but feed like rats on the people’s food! And I’ll tell you now,” he continued dropping his voice, for Hartman had started as though stung, “you might better keep away from that Alsatian Brasserie and the smug-faced thieves who haunt it. You know what they do with suspects!”

Chapter 43

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