Truxton King | Page 4

the city by day and night; never,
in all his travels, had he encountered a more peaceful, less spirit-stirring
place or populace.
Everybody was busy, and thrifty, and law abiding. He might just as
well have gone to Prague or Nuremburg; either was as old and as quaint
and as stupid as this lukewarm city in the hills.
Where were the beautiful women he had read about and dreamed of
ever since he left Teheran? On his soul, he had not seen half a dozen
women in Edelweiss who were more than passably fair to look upon.
True, he had to admit, the people he had seen were of the lower and
middle classes--the shopkeepers and the shopgirls, the hucksters and
the fruit vendors. What he wanted to know was this: What had become
of the royalty and the nobility of Graustark? Where were the princes,
the dukes and the barons, to say nothing of the feminine concomitants
to these excellent gentlemen?
What irritated him most of all was the amazing discovery that there was
a Cook's tourist office in town and that no end of parties arrived and
departed under his very nose, all mildly exhilarated over the fact that
they had seen Graustark! The interpreter, with "Cook's" on his cap, was
quite the most important, if quite the least impressive personage in
town. It is no wonder that this experienced globe-trotter was disgusted!
There was a train to Vienna three times a week. He made up his mind

that he would not let the Saturday express go down without him. He
had done some emphatic sputtering because he had neglected to take
the one on Thursday.
Shunning the newly discovered American club in Castle Avenue as if it
were a pest house, he lugubriously wandered the streets alone, painfully
conscious that the citizens, instead of staring at him with admiring eyes,
were taking but little notice of him. Tall young Americans were quite
common in Edelweiss in these days.
One dingy little shop in the square interested him. It was directly
opposite the Royal Café (with American bar attached), and the contents
of its grimy little windows presented a peculiarly fascinating interest to
him. Time and again, he crossed over from the Café garden to look into
these windows. They were packed with weapons and firearms of such
ancient design that he wondered what they could have been used for,
even in the Middle Ages. Once he ventured inside the little shop.
Finding no attendant, he put aside his suddenly formed impulse to
purchase a mighty broadsword. From somewhere in the rear of the
building came the clanging of steel hammers, the ringing of highly
tempered metals; but, although he pounded vigorously with his cane,
no one came forth to attend him.
On several occasions he had seen a grim, sharp-featured old man in the
doorway of the shop, but it was not until after he had missed the
Thursday train that he made up his mind to accost him and to have the
broadsword at any price. With this object in view, he quickly crossed
the square and inserted his tall frame into the narrow doorway, calling
out lustily for attention. So loudly did he shout that the multitude of
ancient swords and guns along the walls seemed to rattle in terror at
this sudden encroachment of the present.
"What is it?" demanded a sharp, angry voice at his elbow. He wheeled
and found himself looking into the wizened, parchment-like face of the
little old man, whose black eyes snapped viciously. "Do you think I am
deaf?"
"I didn't know you were here," gasped Truxton, forgetting to be

surprised by the other's English. "The place looked empty. Excuse me
for yelling."
"What do you want?"
"That broad--Say, you speak English, don't you?"
"Certainly," snapped the old man. "Why shouldn't I? I can't afford an
interpreter. You'll find plenty of English used here in Edelweiss since
the Americans and British came. They won't learn our language, so we
must learn theirs."
"You speak it quite as well as I do."
"Better, young man. You are an American." The sarcasm was not lost
on Truxton King, but he was not inclined to resent it. A twinkle had
come into the eyes of the ancient; the deep lines about his lips seemed
almost ready to crack into a smile.
"What's the price of that old sword you have in the window?"
"Do you wish to purchase it?"
"Certainly."
"Three hundred gavvos."
"What's that in dollars?"
"Four hundred and twenty."
"Whew!"
"It is genuine, sir, and three hundred years old. Old Prince Boris carried
it. It's most rare. Ten years ago you might have had it for fifty gavvos.
But," with a shrug of his thin shoulders, "the price of antiquities has
gone