Read Ebook: The spider's web by Rathborne St George

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Ebook has 1495 lines and 61201 words, and 30 pages

THE SPIDER'S WEB;

OR, THE

BACHELOR OF THE MIDWAY.

IN THE SHADOW OF THE FERRIS WHEEL.

WHAT THE MOON SAW IN THE MIDWAY.

The tall, well-built pilgrim from over the border, dressed in a quiet suit of Scotch cheviot and carrying a Japanese cane, purchased no doubt in the bazaar, laughs softly as in imagination he pictures the bewilderment and positive alarm that would overwhelm an unfortunate placed in the midst of his present surroundings suddenly.

Indeed, it is a conglomeration of sounds that would appall the bravest heart unaware of their particular origin. The hum of many voices marks the presence of a multitude; from over the buildings across the way come the many cries that day and night accompany the riding of the camels and donkeys in Cairo Street; here and there shout the bunco-steerers who officiate at the doors of various so-called Oriental theaters; fakirs howl their wares--from "bum-bum candy" to hot waffles and trinkets--while the ear-distracting tom-tom music, from behind the gate leading to the Javanese village, throbs like the pulsations of a heart. Above all this infernal din can be distinctly heard the steady "clack--clack" of the ponderous Ferris wheel as it slowly revolves in its course.

Such a kaleidescopic scene had never before been witnessed on earth. Since the day when, at the Tower of Babel, the confusion of tongues came upon the multitude of workers, there has not been a time when the civilized and savage nations of the earth held such a congress as on the Midway Plaisance of Chicago.

There is always a crowd here. Many come for the excitement; others because of the grand opportunity afforded them to study these queer people from all lands. The red fez abounds, but everyone wearing it is not necessarily a Turk or an Arab, or even an Algerian. It is the head gear of the Midway, and those who have business here don it as a matter of course.

In his way, Aleck Craig is something of a philosopher. He has not been abroad, but takes an intense interest in the strange things of other lands, and perhaps it is the opportunity presented by this gathering of nations that causes him to haunt the Midway. His muttered words would indicate another motive also.

Here the noise is less intense. Aleck has many times retired to this place for rest. It is a gaudy scene when lighted up, and he would always remember it in days to come.

Being socially inclined, he has made several acquaintances in the bazaar, with whom he stops from time to time and chats. One of these is a Turk of middle age, a man of stout figure and closely cropped beard in which the gray is sprinkled like pepper and salt. Aleck finds much to interest him in the conversation of Aroun Scutari, the dealer in precious stones of the Turkish bazaar.

The other has traveled all over Europe, has been in the Egyptian army, and impresses the Canadian as a remarkable man. He pays little attention to his business, leaving it almost entirely in the hands of an Armenian, in whom he seems to have implicit confidence. So Craig shrewdly judges that the Turk has hardly come to the great World's Fair to increase his fortune. Various motives bring men here, and it is hardly right to speculate upon their private reasons.

Leaving the gem dealer, he saunters on to pass a few sentences with a wide-awake foreigner who invites the public to step in and view the beauties of Jerusalem through the aid of stereoscopic views.

Upon passing the glittering booth of Scutari again, he sees the stout Turk in earnest conversation with a man who wears a fez, but who sports a blond mustache, and at sight of whom Aleck receives something of a shock.

Instead of passing out of the bazaar, he lingers around, watching for this individual, who soon comes lounging along, smoking a pipe, with the most careless abandon in the world. A cane of bamboo raps upon his arm: he glances down at the spot, brushes some imaginary dirt from his sleeve, and then raises his eyes to the party at the other end of the cane.

"Wycherley, my boy, how are you?" says that individual, smiling.

"Do my eyes deceive me--can I believe the evidence of my vision? Is it Aleck Craig, or his double?" says the party addressed, slowly putting out his hand to meet that proffered him.

"Mercy, you Canadian bear. Now I know you are Aleck. No other man has a grip like that. Keep it, I beg, for your fellow-athletes. I believe you've crushed the bones in my hand. I'll beware of you next time. Now what brings you here--how long do you stay--what business are you in?"

He rattles these sentences off in a dramatic way, for having once been a Thespian, a wandering "barn-stormer," Claude Alan Wycherley could not even ask a waiter for a little more hash without throwing into the simple request an oratorical effect so picturesque, that the poor devil would be apt to drop the plate in his sudden trepidation.

"Of course I'm doing the Fair, and, as you know my failing with regard to studying human nature, you can understand this quaint Midway has strong attractions for me," answers the Canadian.

"So they all say! Everyone comes here to study human nature," laughs the ex-actor, waving his pipe around--they have stepped outside and are on the edge of the multitude thronging the Plaisance--"but I give you the benefit of the doubt, my boy. Yes, I do remember your penchant of old. Nor have I forgotten that I owe my life to the champion of the Montreal Snowshoe Club."

"Nonsense! Don't bring up that thing again."

"Of course it was a trifling matter to you, my boy, but to me it meant all the difference between life and death. I was lost; I should have frozen, for my snowshoes were broken. You came and saved me, God bless you, Craig."

"What are you doing here?" asks the other, as he shows a desire to change the subject, and glancing meaningly at the fez Wycherley wears.

The latter chuckles; his disposition seems to be a genial one.

"To tell you the truth, Aleck, I'm studying human nature, too. Just now I'm passing through an apprenticeship. I make it an object to spend as I go, and each night I throw away what I have made during the day."

"If you're the same old rolling stone I knew a year or two ago, that isn't probably a very hard business," smiles Aleck, for good-natured Claude was usually in a chronic state of financial collapse, yet he would cheerfully bestow his last nickel in charity.

"You're quite correct; but there are times when it bothers me just what to do with certain sums."

"Indeed! That is news. Glad to hear you have been so lucky. Thinking of starting any hospitals, sanitariums, orphan asylums?"

"They'll all come to-morrow, if fortune is kind," returns the man with the fez.

Craig steals a side look at him, as though wondering whether this is a joke or the other has gone mad.

"What has to-day done for you, then?" he asks, bent upon solving the mystery, whereupon Claude deliberately takes out a notebook, turns over the pages, and sighs:

"I made a poor investment, which cuts a big figure in the whole, so my profits for the day only amount to the pitiful sum of seventeen thousand, three hundred and eleven."

"Dollars?" exclaims the astonished Aleck.

"Why, certainly," nods the other; "and that is a wretched showing in comparison to some others I could pick out in here," tapping the wonderful notebook affectionately.

The Canadian draws a long puff at his cigar, as though reflecting. Then he turns suddenly upon his companion and says:

"I see how it is, my dear fellow; you are running the Midway--it is a little private speculation of yours."

"No, no; I deny the soft impeachment," returns the Chicagoan, laughing heartily.

"At least you own the Ferris wheel? Now don't deny that."

"You are right, my boy. But will you kindly relieve my suspense and tell me the nature of this marvelous business."

Wycherley removes his pipe and says laconically:

"You've heard of Wall Street. Well, we have no Wall Street in Chicago, but we've got the greatest lot of hustlers in the grain pit you ever heard of, from Hutchinson, in days gone by, to old Samson Cereal, the grain king of to-day. Now you understand why I gave up a lucrative office; now you can see where the immense profits come in. Why, look here," snatching out the book again and showing a closely written page, "there's what will to-morrow either win or lose me a cool million."

Craig begins to be amused.

"Oh! and I presume you're quite prepared to meet your losses if fortune is against you?"

Wycherley, a modern Dick Swiveller in all his rattle-brained, devil-may-care ways, shrugs his shoulders.

"If the fair goddess refuses me her favor, I'll have to carry it over to the next day."

"Your creditors are very obliging."

"Pshaw! don't you understand, old fellow? I said I was an apprentice; I'm making a deep study of this grain gambling on 'Change. It's my intention to devote myself to it after I've got the secret of success down fine. I'm only betting with myself, you see. Some days I'm depressed by heavy losses; then again I'm on the top of the swim--my name famous as a high-roller. You don't know how exciting it is to take up an afternoon paper in a delightful state of uncertainty as to whether you have won or lost a fortune."

"Ahem! it must be, indeed. See here, how long have you been at this odd game?"

"About three weeks."

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