The Guns of Europe | Page 6

United States Senator, in Vienna, and his intention of returning to America early in the autumn to finish his course at the university.
"I should like to see that America of yours," said von Boehlen, after he had told something of himself, "but I fear it is not to be this year."
"You stay in Dresden long?" asked John.
"No, I leave tonight, but we may meet again, and then you can tell me more of that far western world, so vast and so interesting, but of which we Europeans really know so little."
John noticed that he did not tell where he was go ing. But he surmised that Prussian army officers usually kept their destination to themselves. His talk with von Boehlen had impressed him more than ever with the size, speed and overwhelming power of the German army machine. It was not possible for any thing to stand before it, and the mystery that clothed it around imparted to it a superhuman quality.
But he brushed away such thoughts. The sun was shining again. It danced in a myriad golden beams over the Elbe, it clothed in warmth the kindly city, and von Boehlen, with a politeness that was now unimpeachable rose to tell him good-bye. He acknowledged to himself that he felt a little flattered by the man's attention, and his courtesy was equal to that of the Prussian. Then the officer, dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword, apparently a favorite gesture, stalked away.
It was John's first impulse to tell Mr. Anson of his talk with von Boehlen, but he obeyed his second and kept it to himself. Even after he was gone the feeling that some motive was behind the Prussian's blandness remained.
A letter came that afternoon from his uncle, the Senator. He was in Vienna, and he wished his nephew and Mr. Anson to join him there, cutting short their stay in Dresden. They could come by the way of Prague, and a day or two spent in that old Bohemian city would repay them. John showed the letter to Mr. Anson, who agreed with him that a wish from the Senator was in reality a command, and should be obeyed promptly.
John, although he liked Dresden, had but one regret. He could not go up in the Zeppelin dirigible and he hastened to tell Herr Simmering that his entry was withdrawn.
"I'll have to cut out the dirigible," he said in his colloquial tongue. "Perhaps you can find somebody to take my place."
"Perhaps," said the landlord, "and on the other hand it may be that the dirigible will not go up for me."
"Why? I thought you had chartered it for a second trip."
Herr Simmering compressed his lips. John saw that, under impulse, he had said more than he in tended. It was an objection of his to Germany this constant secrecy and mystery that seemed to him not only useless but against the natural flow of human nature.
"Are all the Zeppelins confiscated by the government?" he asked, speaking wholly at random.
Herr Simmering started. Fat and smooth, he shot a single, menacing glance at the young American. But, in a moment, he was smiling again and John had not noticed.
"Our government never tells its plans," he said. "Mr. Anson says that you leave tomorrow for Prague."
"Yes," said John curiously, "and I can almost infer from your tone, Herr Simmering, that you will be glad to see us go."
But Herr Simmering protested earnestly that he never liked to lose paying guests, above all those de 1 light ful Americans, who had so much appreciation and who made so little trouble. The German soul and the American soul were akin.
"Well, we do like your country and your people," \said John. "That's the reason we come here so much."
In the evening, while Mr. Anson was absorbed in the latest English newspapers which had just come in, John went out for a walk. His favorite method of seeing a European city was to stroll the streets, and using his own phrase to "soak" it in.
He passed now down the street which led by the very edge of the Elbe, and watched the long freight boats go by, lowering their smokestacks as they went under the bridges. The night was cloudy, and the city behind him became dusky in the mists and dark ness. Dresden was strangely quiet, too, but he soon forgot it, as he moved back into the past.
The past, not the details, but the dim forgotten life, aways made a powerful appeal to John. He had read that Dresden began with a little fishing village, and now he was trying to imagine the tawny men of a thousand years ago, in their rude canoes, casting their nets and lines in the river which flowed so darkly be fore him. But