discovered that Baron von Götz-Wrede had not been guilty of exaggeration when he had said that an officer in the Guards must have a private income of at least fifty thousand marks a year.
The demands upon his pocketbook were heavy and incessant.
His uniforms alone, and there were over a dozen of them, from simple fatigue and stable uniform to a gorgeous affair used for parade drill, cost more than Tom back home would have spent for clothes in a life time. His full dress sword was a hammered, chiseled, engraved work of art worth its weight in silver.
Then there were the horses, those for himself as well as for his Bursche and his stable boy, the latter two new acquisitions. And the horses were not the shaggy, round-eyed range ponies one can pick up at a bargain in the West after roundup. These animals were thoroughbreds, English, Arab, Kentucky, and Hungarian, and they cost a thoroughbred price.
He had to subscribe to the band fund, the regimental charity fund, the mess fund, the Liebesmahl fund, and half-a-dozen others. He had to entertain lavishly. Thus the sum which Vyvyan had advanced him melted like snow in a Northwestern chinook wind, and it was not many weeks before he saw the tail end of his roll.
The Baron must have guessed something of the sort.
"I'll buy that mine of yours," he said time after time, with wearying Teutonic persistency, thinking that repetition was synonymous with argument; chiefly one day, late in November when Tom had been initiated into the delights of baccara at a private Club for Guard officers and high Prussian officials called sardonically: "Verein der Harmlosen—Association of the Innocent," where, finding out that all his poker training did not help him a whit in a pure game of chance, he had dropped over eight thou sand marks to the little Hussar, Graf von Bissingen-Trotzow.
So it was with an ear-shattering whoop of relief that early one morning he opened and read a long cablegram, signed Alec Wynn, which brought the startling news that Truex was not dead, that the litigation against the Yankee Doodle Glory had been dismissed, that Lehneke was in jail, and that once more Tom was on the high crest of prosperity.
"Wedekind and I are celebrating to-night!" wound up the lawyer's message. "I'll add the cost of it to my fee."
"Go to it!" Tom cabled back. "I shall do some little celebrating myself at this end!"
He did.
First he telephoned to Vyvyan, who congratulated him, but was unable to attend the festivities. Then he gathered about him a baker's dozen of chosen spirits of his regiment.
The celebration began with a dinner at Dressel's, progressed through the half-dozen layers of the Berlin night-life-layer-cake, from a look-in at the latest Metropol Theater Review where, typical of the German capital, the American actress, Madge Lessing, was the female lead, and Giampietro, an Austrian ex-cavalry officer, the male lead, to the newest Cabaret where the long-haired artist at the piano, a cross between Paul Verlaine and Ernest Dowson, trilled passionate serenades that would have curdled both County Council and Comstock blood; to wind up in a rapid, impromptu switch into civilian dress, at Bissingen-Trotzow's apartment, and a dance at one of the Westend all-night places where stout provincials, on their annual spree, were opening wine, where cocottes from all the world had their nightly rendezvous, and where a Bavarian orchestra was trying hard to bring Teutonic order and efficiency into the disorderly, syncopated swing and rhythm of the latest American ragtime tune.
Results: a headache and a brown taste, and a none too pleasant word when early the next morning (Tom thanked his stars that it was a free day, without stable or drill duties) Krauss announced Baron von Götz-Wrede.
"For the love o' Mike, Baron," Tom said weakly, holding his tousled red head, "don't speak to me! Have a heart. I have a feeling
"I know. Wait. I'll mix you something that will touch the right spot," laughed the other. He went to the kitchen door and spoke a few words to the valet who, a few minutes later, brought in a steaming cup of coffee cut with kirsch.
"Swallow that!" commanded the Baron.
"You're the doctor!" Tom drank the steaming, aromatic mixture, blinked his eyes, smiled, and sat up. "Say," he continued, "and you're a great little doctor. I'll call you in again. Thanks for coming."
"I had to come. Matter of duty. You see, I am the adjutant of the
"Sure. Say—is old Wedekind kicking up again? Threatening me with court-martial for some sin or other?"