Frenzied Fiction | Page 9

is to come
before Congress on the most solemn mission that ever--"
But my speech fell unheeded. Knickerbocker had picked up his glass
again and was leering over it at a bevy of girls dancing upon the stage.
"Look at that girl," he interrupted quickly, "the one dancing at the end.
What do you think of her, eh? Some peach!"
Knickerbocker broke off suddenly. For at this moment our ears caught
the sound of a noise, a distant tumult, as it were, far down the street and

growing nearer. The old man had drawn himself erect in his seat, his
hand to his ear, listening as he caught the sound.
"Out on the Broad Way," he said, instinctively calling it by its ancient
name as if a flood of memories were upon him. "Do you hear it?
Listen--listen--what is it? I've heard that sound before--I've heard every
sound on the Broad Way these two centuries back--what is it? I seem to
know it!"
The sound and tumult as of running feet and of many voices crying
came louder from the street. The people at the tables had turned in their
seats to listen. The music of the orchestra had stopped. The waiters had
thrown back the heavy curtains from the windows and the people were
crowding to them to look out into the street. Knickerbocker had risen in
his place, his eyes looked toward the windows, but his gaze was fixed
on vacancy as with one who sees a vision passing.
"I know the sound," he cried. "I see it all again. Look, can't you see
them? It's Massachusetts soldiers marching South to the war--can't you
hear the beating of the drums and the shrill calling of the fife--the
regiments from the North, the first to come. I saw them pass, here
where we are sitting, sixty years ago--"
Knickerbocker paused a moment, his hand still extended in the air, and
then with a great light upon his face he cried:
"I know it now! I know what it meant, the feeling that has haunted
me--the sounds I kept hearing--the guns of the ships at sea and the
voices calling in distress! I know now. It means, sir, it means--"
But as he spoke a great cry came up from the street and burst in at the
doors and windows, echoing in a single word:
WAR! WAR! The message of the President is for WAR!
"War!" cried Father Knickerbocker, rising to his full height, stern and
majestic and shouting in a stentorian tone that echoed through the great
room. "War! War! To your places, every one of you! Be done with

your idle luxury! Out with the glare of your lights! Begone you painted
women and worthless men! To your places every man of you! To the
Battery! Man the guns! Stand to it, every one of you for the defence of
America--for our New York, New York--"
Then, with the sound "New York, New York" still echoing in my ears I
woke up. The vision of my dream was gone. I was still on the seat of
the car where I had dozed asleep, the book upon my knee. The train had
arrived at the depot and the porters were calling into the doorway of the
car: "New York! New York!"
All about me was the stir and hubbub of the great depot. But loud over
all it was heard the call of the newsboys crying "WAR! WAR! The
President's message is for WAR! Late extra! WAR! WAR!"
And I knew that a great nation had cast aside the bonds of sloth and
luxury, and was girding itself to join in the fight for the free democracy
of all mankind.

III. The Prophet in Our Midst
The Eminent Authority looked around at the little group of us seated
about him at the club. He was telling us, or beginning to tell us, about
the outcome of the war. It was a thing we wanted to know. We were
listening attentively. We felt that we were "getting something."
"I doubt very much," he said, "whether Downing Street realizes the
enormous power which the Quai d'Orsay has over the Yildiz Kiosk."
"So do I," I said, "what is it?"
But he hardly noticed the interruption.
"You've got to remember," he went on, "that, from the point of view of
the Yildiz, the Wilhelmstrasse is just a thing of yesterday."
"Quite so," I said.

"Of course," he added, "the Ballplatz is quite different."
"Altogether different," I admitted.
"And mind you," he said, "the Ballplatz itself can be largely moved
from the Quirinal through the Vatican."
"Why of course it can," I agreed, with as much relief in my tone as I
could put into it. After all, what simpler way of moving the Ballplatz