The Wheel O Fortune

The Wheel O' Fortune, by Louis
Tracy

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Title: The Wheel O' Fortune
Author: Louis Tracy
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July 26, 2003]
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Language: English
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THE WHEEL O' FORTUNE
BY
LOUIS TRACY
Author of "The Wings of the Morning," "The Pillar of Light," "The
Captain of the Kansas" etc.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG

CONTENTS
* CHAPTER I. WHEREIN FORTUNE TURNS HER WHEEL
* CHAPTER II. THE COMPACT
* CHAPTER III. A CHANGE OF SKY, BUT NOT OF HABIT

* CHAPTER IV. VON KERBER EXPLAINS
* CHAPTER V. MISS FENSHAWE SEEKS AN ALLY
* CHAPTER VI. AT THE PORTAL
* CHAPTER VII. MRS. HAXTON RECEIVES A SHOCK
* CHAPTER VIII. MASSOWAH ASSERTS ITSELF
* CHAPTER IX. A GALLOP IN THE DARK
* CHAPTER X. THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
* CHAPTER XI. A WOMAN INTERVENES
* CHAPTER XII. STUMP DEPENDS ON OBSERVATION
* CHAPTER XIII. THE SIGN IN THE SKY
* CHAPTER XIV. WHEREIN A BISHARIN CAMEL BECOMES
USEFUL
* CHAPTER XV. THE DESERT AWAKES
* CHAPTER XVI. A FLIGHT--AND A FIGHT
* CHAPTER XVII. HOW THREE ROADS LED IN ONE
DIRECTION
* CHAPTER XVIII. THE FINDING OF THE TREASURE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"By the Prophet!" he exclaimed, "I am overjoyed at seeing you" "I don't
want your charity, I want work!" "Let your prisoner go, Mr. King"
"Good morning, Mr. King," she cried "You need no promise from me,
Miss Fenshawe" The Arab appraised Royson with critical eye He did

not dare meet the glance suddenly turned upon him "Go, Dick, but
come back to me in safety"
CHAPTER I
WHEREIN FORTUNE TURNS HER WHEEL
At ten o'clock on a morning in October--a dazzling, sunlit morning
after hours of wind-lashed rain--a young man hurried out of Victoria
Station and dodged the traffic and the mud-pools on his way towards
Victoria Street. Suddenly he was brought to a stand by an unusual
spectacle. A procession of the "unemployed" was sauntering out of
Vauxhall Bridge Road into the more important street. Being men of
leisure, the processionists moved slowly. The more alert pedestrian
who had just emerged from the station did not grumble at the delay--he
even turned it to advantage by rolling and lighting a cigarette. The
ragged regiment filed past, a soiled, frayed, hopeless-looking gang.
Three hundred men had gathered on the south side of the river, and
were marching to join other contingents on the Thames Embankment,
whence some thousands of them would be shepherded by policemen up
Northumberland Avenue, across Trafalgar Square, and so, by way of
Lower Regent Street and Piccadilly, to Hyde Park, where they would
hoarsely cheer every demagogue who blamed the Government for their
miseries.
London, like Richard Royson, would stand on the pavement and watch
them. Like him, it would drop a few coins into the collecting boxes
rattled under its nose, and grin at the absurd figure cut by a very fat
man who waddled notably, among his leaner brethren, for hunger and
substance are not often found so strangely allied. But, having salved its
conscience by giving, and gratified its sarcastic humor by laughing,
London took thought, perhaps, when it read the strange device on the
banner carried by this Vauxhall contingent. "Curse your charity --we
want work," said the white letters, staring threateningly out of a wide
strip of red cotton. There was a brutal force in the phrase. It was
Socialism in a tabloid. Many a looker-on, whose lot was nigh as
desperate as that of the demonstrators, felt that it struck him between

the eyes.
It had some such effect on Royson. Rather abruptly he turned away,
and