LITMIR.BIZ

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ze worldt. War is perhaps already declared. We go-to America. Our fleet will descend out of ze air upon ze United States — it is a country quite unprepared for war eferywhere — eferywhere. Zey have always relied on ze Atlantic. And their navy. We have selected a certain point — it is at present ze secret of our commanders — which we shall seize, and zen we shall establish a depot — a sort of inland Gibraltar. It will be — what will it be? — an eagle’s nest. Zere our airships will gazzer and repair, and thence they will fly to and fro ofer ze United States, terrorising cities, dominating Washington, levying what is necessary, until ze terms we dictate are accepted. You follow me?”

      “Go on!” said Bert.

      “We could haf done all zis wiz such Luftschiffe and Drachenflieger as we possess, but ze accession of your machine renders our project complete. It not only gifs us a better Drachenflieger, but it remofes our last uneasiness as to Great Pritain. Wizout you, sir, Great Pritain, ze land you lofed so well and zat has requited you so ill, zat land of Pharisees and reptiles, can do nozzing! — nozzing! You see, I am perfectly frank wiz you. Well, I am instructed that Chermany recognises all this. We want you to place yourself at our disposal. We want you to become our Chief Head Flight Engineer. We want you to manufacture, we want to equip a swarm of hornets under your direction. We want you to direct this force. And it is at our depot in America we want you. So we offer you simply, and without haggling, ze full terms you demanded weeks ago — one hundert tousand poundts in cash, a salary of three tousand poundts a year, a pension of one tousand poundts a year, and ze title of Paron as you desired. These are my instructions.”

      He resumed his scrutiny of Bert’s face.

      “That’s all right, of course,” said Bert, a little short of breath, but otherwise resolute and calm; and it seemed to him that now was the time to bring his nocturnal scheming to the issue.

      The secretary contemplated Bert’s collar with sustained attention. Only for one moment did his gaze move to the sandals and back.

      “Jes’ lemme think a bit,” said Bert, finding the stare debilitating. “Look ‘ere I” he said at last, with an air of great explicitness, “I GOT the secret.”

      “Yes.”

      “But I don’t want the name of Butteridge to appear — see? I been thinking that over.”

      “A little delicacy?”

      “Exactly. You buy the secret — leastways, I give it you — from Bearer — see?”

      His voice failed him a little, and the stare continued. “I want to do the thing Enonymously. See?”

      Still staring. Bert drifted on like a swimmer caught by a current. “Fact is, I’m going to edop’ the name of Smallways. I don’t want no title of Baron; I’ve altered my mind. And I want the money quiet-like. I want the hundred thousand pounds paid into benks-thirty thousand into the London and County Benk Branch at Bun Hill in Kent directly I ‘and over the plans; twenty thousand into the Benk of England; ‘arf the rest into a good French bank, the other ‘arf the German National Bank, see? I want it put there, right away. I don’t want it put in the name of Butteridge. I want it put in the name of Albert Peter Smallways; that’s the name I’m going to edop’. That’s condition one.”

      “Go on!” said the secretary.

      “The nex condition,” said Bert, “is that you don’t make any inquiries as to title. I mean what English gentlemen do when they sell or let you land. You don’t arst ‘ow I got it. See? ‘Ere I am — I deliver you the goods — that’s all right. Some people ‘ave the cheek to say this isn’t my invention, see? It is, you know — THAT’S all right; but I don’t want that gone into. I want a fair and square agreement saying that’s all right. See?”

      His “See?” faded into a profound silence.

      The secretary sighed at last, leant back in his chair and produced a toothpick, and used it, to assist his meditation on Bert’s case. “What was that name?” he asked at last, putting away the toothpick; “I must write it down.”

      “Albert Peter Smallways,” said Bert, in a mild tone.

      The secretary wrote it down, after a little difficulty about the spelling because of the different names of the letters of the alphabet in the two languages.

      “And now, Mr. Schmallvays,” he said at last, leaning back and resuming the stare, “tell me: how did you ket hold of Mister Pooterage’s balloon?”

      7

      When at last the Graf von Winterfold left Bert Smallways, he left him in an extremely deflated condition, with all his little story told.

      He had, as people say, made a clean breast of it. He had been pursued into details. He had had to explain the blue suit, the sandals, the Desert Dervishes — everything. For a time scientific zeal consumed the secretary, and the question of the plans remained in suspense. He even went into speculation about the previous occupants of the balloon. “I suppose,” he said, “the laty WAS the laty. Bot that is not our affair.

      “It is fery curious and amusing, yes: but I am afraid the Prince may be annoyt. He acted wiz his usual decision — always he acts wiz wonterful decision. Like Napoleon. Directly he was tolt of your descent into the camp at Dornhof, he said, ‘Pring him! — pring him! It is my schtar!’ His schtar of Destiny! You see? He will be dthwarted. He directed you to come as Herr Pooterage, and you haf not done so. You haf triet, of course; but it has peen a poor try. His chugments of men are fery just and right, and it is better for men to act up to them — gompletely. Especially now. Particularly now.”

      He resumed that attitude of his, with his underlip pinched between his forefingers. He spoke almost confidentially. “It will be awkward. I triet to suggest some doubt, but I was overruled. The Prince does not listen. He is impatient in the high air. Perhaps he will think his schtar has been making a fool of him. Perhaps he will think I haf been making a fool of him.”

      He wrinkled his forehead, and drew in the corners of his mouth.

      “I got the plans,” said Bert.

      “Yes. There is that! Yes. But you see the Prince was interested in Herr Pooterage because of his romantic seit. Herr Pooterage was so much more — ah! — in the picture. I am afraid you are not equal to controlling the flying machine department of our aerial park as he wished you to do. He hadt promised himself that….

      “And der was also the prestige — the worldt prestige of Pooterage with us…. Well, we must see what we can do.” He held out his hand. “Gif me the plans.”

      A terrible chill ran through the being of Mr. Smallways. To this day he is not clear in his mind whether he wept or no, but certainly there was weeping in his voice. “‘Ere, I say!” he protested. “Ain’t I to ‘ave — nothin’ for ‘em?”

      The secretary regarded him with benevolent eyes. “You do not deserve anyzing!” he said.

      “I might ‘ave tore ‘em up.”

      “Zey are not yours!”

      “They weren’t Butteridge’s!”

      “No need to pay anyzing.”

      Bert’s being seemed to tighten towards desperate deeds. “Gaw!” he said, clutching his coat, “AIN’T there?”

      “Pe galm,“said the secretary. “Listen! You shall haf five hundert poundts. You shall haf it on my promise. I will do that for you, and that is all I can do. Take it from me. Gif me the name of that bank. Write it down. So! I tell you the Prince — is no choke. I do not think he approffed of your appearance last night. No! I can’t answer for him. He wanted Pooterage, and you haf spoilt it. The Prince — I do not understand quite, he is in a strange state. It is the excitement of the starting and this great soaring in the air. I cannot account for what he does. But if all goes well I will see to it — you shall haf five hundert

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