The faithful Tana, pedagogue by nature and man of
all work by profession, had returned with them.
Among their more frequent guests a tradition had sprung
up about him. Maury Noble remarked one afternoon
that his real name was Tannenbaum, and that he was
a German agent kept in this country to disseminate
Teutonic propaganda through Westchester County, and,
after that, mysterious letters began to arrive from
Philadelphia addressed to the bewildered Oriental as
“Lt. Emile Tannenbaum,” containing
a few cryptic messages signed “General Staff,”
and adorned with an atmospheric double column of facetious
Japanese. Anthony always handed them to Tana
without a smile; hours afterward the recipient could
be found puzzling over them in the kitchen and declaring
earnestly that the perpendicular symbols were not Japanese,
nor anything resembling Japanese.
Gloria had taken a strong dislike to the man ever
since the day when, returning unexpectedly from the
village, she had discovered him reclining on Anthony’s
bed, puzzling out a newspaper. It was the instinct
of all servants to be fond of Anthony and to detest
Gloria, and Tana was no exception to the rule.
But he was thoroughly afraid of her and made plain
his aversion only in his moodier moments by subtly
addressing Anthony with remarks intended for her ear:
“What Miz Pats want dinner?” he would
say, looking at his master. Or else he would
comment about the bitter selfishness of “’Merican
peoples” in such manner that there was no doubt
who were the “peoples” referred to.
But they dared not dismiss him. Such a step would
have been abhorrent to their inertia. They endured
Tana as they endured ill weather and sickness of the
body and the estimable Will of God—as they
endured all things, even themselves.
IN DARKNESS
One sultry afternoon late in July Richard Caramel
telephoned from New York that he and Maury were coming
out, bringing a friend with them. They arrived
about five, a little drunk, accompanied by a small,
stocky man of thirty-five, whom they introduced as
Mr. Joe Hull, one of the best fellows that Anthony
and Gloria had ever met.
Joe Hull had a yellow beard continually fighting through
his skin and a low voice which varied between basso
profundo and a husky whisper. Anthony, carrying
Maury’s suitcase up-stairs, followed into the
room and carefully closed the door.
“Who is this fellow?” he demanded.
Maury chuckled enthusiastically.
“Who, Hull? Oh, he’s all right.
He’s a good one.”
“Yes, but who is he?”
“Hull? He’s just a good fellow.
He’s a prince.” His laughter redoubled,
culminating in a succession of pleasant catlike grins.
Anthony hesitated between a smile and a frown.
“He looks sort of funny to me. Weird-looking
clothes”—he paused—“I’ve
got a sneaking suspicion you two picked him up somewhere
last night.”
