THEN as the landaulet began to move away, the departing traveller, speaking his farewell from the window, looked forth upon two faces suffused with a jocose enjoyment so cordial that his own ready colour heightened embarrassingly. Dr. E. D. G. N. Medjila called godspeeds in four languages, and his pupil, with laughter brilliant in her eyes, shouted something all consonants, which made them both the merrier. The automobile began to gather speed; but the two odd, friendly figures remained where they were, calling after it and waving their hands. They were still there and still waving, dwindled by the distance, but strongly coloured against the gray ruins behind them, when the young man in the car looked back for the last time and waved once more in return before the curving road carried him from their sight.
"Incredible people!" he said; but withdrew the adjective since nothing was incredible upon this continent. Strangely, he liked them; unaccountably, he felt a little actual affection for them and knew he should often wonder about them and never forget them, although he had but this glimpse of them and was never to see them again. They were two merry yet wistful queer figures such as Wonderland Alice, wandering in Africa, might have encountered, he thought; and Miss Olivia Tinker was almost as odd as they were to have wished him to hear from Medjila that her father was really a Roman!
That idea belonged indeed to an archæologist who had no place except in a book of airiest whimsy; but as Laurence thought again he was not so sure; for he remembered how he had seen from the minaret in Biskra the return of the caravan from Sidi Okba in the Desert. He remembered how the figure of Tinker in his scarlet robe, riding in barbaric pomp upon the great white camel at the head of the caravan, had at first seemed ridiculous; but as he came nearer with his wild escort in tumult about him and princely rulers upon his right and left, and himself careless of both tumult and princes, there had appeared to be something formidable—something of the great Carthaginian—about such a man. But Medjila would not have him Carthaginian: he had insisted upon "Roman," and "Roman" meant gigantic.
Then suddenly the young man in the landaulet winced;—he made in his throat one of those sounds of protest that dentists sometimes hear from their patients. For Mme. Momoro's final sharpness again operated upon an exposed nerve of his. Was it true? Had he seen that barbarian of hers grow larger and larger until he became Medjila's "Roman," while he himself grew smaller and smaller until he became only a little petty-souled bankrupt—a bankrupt in vanity as in everything else? Could it possibly be true that Tinker was large, was formidable, was gigantic, was indeed the new Roman?
His thought of the man became concentrated. He thought of that outbreak of semi-riotous, middle-aged men on the "Duumvir" with Tinker as their ringleader; he thought of "Honey, how's Baby?" and of "Mariar," and of the poker table in the smoking-room and the sly cunning that had won all the chips; he thought of the infantile helplessness that sought to appease a wife's anger with barber's unguents and with deceptions and evasions a child might have employed; he thought of the man's surreptitious and barbaric gallantries—but at least they had not been rebuffed! And he thought, too, of the weakling husband meekly submitting to be bundled into an automobile and indignantly hurried away because a frolicsome girl had slapped his shoulder. Was this inept creature, this childishly loose, childishly tricky creature, this over-lavish, careless, bragging, noisy, money-getting and money-worshipping creature a "new Roman?"
Laurence drew a deep breath, his shoulders relaxed, and he leaned back against the cushions more comfortably: he saw Tinker in little again. Then, after a time, his frown returned and his shoulders renewed their tensity; for he thought of Mme. Momoro in Tunis, already in possession of "something" and in all probability waiting in the hope of "something more." Even poor E. D. G. N. Medjila hoped to "get something"—and why was he himself on the road to Tunis? He could have arranged with Cayzac by wire for Etienne to drive him back to Algiers without additional cost: the distance was actually shorter. Wasn't he on the road to Tunis because his affairs were desperate and because there he hoped to find the only man he knew whose heart was careless enough of money and big enough with humanity to rescue him without mortifying him? For, in spite of his denial on the stairway in Biskra, Laurence knew all the time that he, too, expected to "get something" out of Tinker. Was it then from a small man, a money worshipper, that he sought a rescue?
Olivia wished him to think of her father as the "new Roman"; she was pleased with that and wanted him to hear it. One thing was clear: she had adored her father even when she hated him; she had always adored him, and now she wanted this critic of him to admire him. Medjila's talk was really a message from her, and, seeing it in that light, Laurence was touched; there was something both whimsical and fond in what she had done. The fondness was for her father—and perhaps there was a little for the critic too; though he was well enough cured of fatuousness not to be sure. It wasn't fatuous, however, to be sure that she cared a little about what he thought, and since she wished him to think of her father as the "new Roman" But here Laurence again remembered "Mariar." He would have done anything within his power that Olivia wished him to do; but when he decided to be obedient and to think of the man who had sung "Mariar" as a Roman, he found he couldn't.
He couldn't make up his mind about Tinker at all: Tinker was entirely too much for him.
Tinker was too much for many others, and if Ogle had known it, he had good company in thus being overwhelmed. For years, excellent people in their mutual native land had found Tinker too much for them; so had people not so excellent; and in Africa some of both kinds of people were in a like condition. Among the excellent ones was the courier, Jean Edouard Le Seyeux, who easily recognized his present undertaking as the most remarkable of his career, and one moment held the opinion that his employer was mentally defective and the next that he was a great man. Sometimes he suspected him of humour.
But a part of the time Le Seyeux was merely stupefied by his strange experience, and his thoughts became too confused for him to give them definition even to himself. Coincidentally, such a time was upon him that afternoon. While the disturbed young American on the road to Constantine found Tinker too much for him, Le Seyeux, at the tomb of St. Augustine upon a Mediterranean hillside, found Tinker too much for anybody. This was a hillside up over the town of Bône, and several hundred kilometers beyond the stretch of road coursed by the other person just now most poignantly of Le Seyeux's mind in respect to Tinker. Olivia and her mother, who was tearful (not because of St. Augustine), sat waiting in an automobile before the church at the top of the hill, while the two men descended to the stone-covered grave of the great Bishop.
"Who'd you say he was?" Tinker asked, for the third time.
"It is Saint Augustine."
"What'd he do, John?"
"He was the great ecclesiastical authority of the Fourth Century. He was Bishop. He was the great religious power of his time."
"Preacher, I expect," Tinker said thoughtfully. "What denomination was he?"
Le Seyeux's eyes showed a little wildness; but he answered simply, "He was of the Church."
"Which one?" Then, seeing that the courier seemed to have a difficulty in comprehending him, his employer kindly explained the question. "You know in our country, John, we got Methodists and Presbyterians and Unitarians and Episcopalians and Catholics and Christian Scientists and Baptists and Quakers and Seventh-Day Adventists, and Campbellites and Dunkards and Shakers and Lutherans and I don't know what all, just the way you got all these Mohammedans and Catholics and probably a good many others over here. Well, you say this man here Wha'd you say his name was?"
"Saint Augustine."
"'Saint,'" Tinker repeated reflectively. "Catholic, I expect. He isn't in the Bible, is he?"
"Bible? No! Fourth Century! He was Bishop. He wrote the great 'Confessions.' He has establish' the doctrine of original sin. He has establish' that if a child is not baptize' it is to go to hell."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" Tinker appeared to be greatly enlightened. "I see. Well, sir, that's just like my own father. He was an old-time Presbyterian."
"No, no! Saint Augustine is not Presbyterian. He is old Christian—of the old Church. He"
"Never mind," Tinker said. "I meant my father was a Presbyterian, not this old fellow here; but it looks like they believed a good deal the same way." He looked reflectively at the round stone platform, nicked the end of a cigar with a small gold instrument upon his thin watch chain, shook his head, and remarked pleasantly, "Out o' date."
"Sir? Saint Augustine is buried fifteen hundred years ago."
"That's what I meant," Tinker said. "Plum out o' date. I mean the whole business."
"Sir?"
"It's like this," Tinker explained as he lighted his cigar: "What was the name of that other old fellow we saw his tomb over at the mud town that had the big smells?"
"Sidi Okba, the great Mohammedan conqueror."
"Yes. You said he'd been moulderin' there thirteen hundred years, and this one you say fifteen hundred. That old Sidi Okba was a Mohammedan and wanted to kill everybody didn't think the way he did, and here's this old fellow wanted to send everybody to hell didn't think the way he did. Listen, John. It's all out o' date."
"Sir?"
"Listen," Tinker said indulgently. "What's it all about? I mean everything—all these mountains and the ocean and the Desert, and all these Arabs and French people, and us? I'm talkin' about the whole possetucky—the whole blame kit-an'-boodle—everything and everybody. What's the big idea? What's the object? Well, one man's guess is as good as the next man's. This old fellow didn't know any more about it than that other one did down there in the mud town with the smell and the sore-eyed children. Fact is, both of 'em guessed wrong."
"Sir?"
"Listen," Tinker said; and he became profoundly serious. "There's only just about one single thing been really cleared up in a religious line, you might say, in all the time these two old fellows been lyin' in this soil, and what is it? Listen, John—it's simply this: the human race has got to make progress. Well, you might ask: 'What for? Where's it got to progress to? It don't seem much use to be goin' unless you're goin' somewhere, so where are you goin'?' Well, that's a sensible question, and both these old dead fellows would probably 'a' given you the same answer. 'Goin' to try to keep out o' hell and get to heaven,' they'd 'a' said. So listen—that's out o' date. The only hell we worry about nowadays is slippin' back in our progress; we got to show a bigger and better business this year than we did last year."
"Sir?"
"It's like this, John," Tinker said benevolently. "The Almighty doesn't care a nickel about anything except our makin' that progress. He'll wipe us out in a minute if we don't make it. He'll wipe us out and go on about His business and never give us another thought, because what He's looking for is a good live crowd that's got the brains and the push and the go-get-it to keep goin' ahead. That's every last thing He cares about! Look how He's wiped 'em out, one race after the other, the way we've seen since we left Algiers! The kind He patronizes are the boys that got the plans all ready for a bigger and better city the morning after the earthquake, the kind that like an earthquake because it gives 'em the opportunity they been waitin' for! The other kind, He just passes an eraser over 'em; and we've seen where some awful work's been done with that eraser in Africa. Well, to-day we're here and we've got our chance; and the one single and only thing in the universe that's plain, John Edwards, it's this." Here he became solemnly emphatic, and put his heavy hand upon the courier's shoulder. "The somewhere we're goin' to, and got to go to if we don't want to get wiped out, it's somewhere everlastingly and eternally ahead! It's like to-morrow; when we get there we aren't there; we got to keep goin', and we got to everlastingly and eternally keep goin'—and goin' fast! If we don't, the Almighty hasn't got a bit o' use for us; He turns us right into dust and scattered old bones, and nothin's left of our whole country and our finest cities except some street paving and a few cellars with weeds in 'em. You get me, John?"
The courier wiped his brow. "Yes, sir. I think the ladies may think we keep them waiting too long."
"I expect so." But Tinker looked at the odd round platform and still lingered. "I suppose he lived in this town here."
"Yes, sir. Bône. It is ancient Hippo."
"Shouldn't think anybody'd want to have his city called either one o' those names. Looks like he was a good citizen, though, and thought a lot of the place—wantin' to be buried here and all. Yes, sir; any man's city can get along without him; but no man can get along without his city!" Thoughtfully, he began to walk away, ascending the upper slope of the hill, the courier beside him. "Did that old fellow ever do anything besides what you told me, John?"
"He wrote some other books. One is called 'The City of God.'"
"Is that so!" Tinker was strongly and favourably impressed. He paused and looked down at the roofs and gardens of Bône between the hill and sea. "Is that so? He did?" For a moment it was evident that he discovered some point of high congeniality between himself and the great Bishop: he glanced back at the tomb approvingly, then down at the town again. "Called it 'The City of God,' did he? Well, sir, if he thought so much o' that little place, it's a pity he couldn't 'a' lived to" But a second thought dimmed his brightened interest, and he walked on almost gloomily. "Book about spiritual matters, I expect," he said.
"Yes, sir. Saint Augustine lived in Fifth Century also; he wrote this book in thirteen years from four hunder' thirteen Anno Domini to four hunder' twenty-six. In the year four hunder' thirty the city of Hippo was besiege' by"
"Never mind, John," Tinker interrupted soothingly. "You can tell us about it in the car. What time you think you're goin' to get us into Tunis to-morrow?"
"If we start very early in the morning we arrive by five o'clock."
"All right," Tinker said, and he glanced upward apprehensively.
Mrs. Tinker was leaning out of the window of the automobile, sternly watching his slow approach; her tears were vanished, and she had now gone into the second of the two moods that had been hers, to the exclusion of all others, during the entire journey from Biskra. Having wept, she was now become grim, and her eye upon her husband was that of a schoolteacher upon the worst boy in the class.
Tinker found it unbearable;—he set a powerful grip upon the arm of Le Seyeux. "Listen, John," he said. "You say Tunis is a place where you can buy anything. Well, it better be! What I want you to do when we get to the hotel, I want you to get there in the other car before we do, and when we come in the first thing I want you to do is to have everything ready and get the ladies up to their rooms the very minute they step into the lobby. I don't know, but I've got kind of an idea there might be a reason it'd be just as well if they didn't poke around any just at first, but went right upstairs and took a nap or something. You understand?"
"Yes, sir; but there is no reason to be uneasy: Tunis is entirely safe for ladies, especially in the French quarter. There would be no danger of any"
"I certainly hope there isn't, myself!" Tinker said fervently; but he seemed dubious about it, and he halted at a little distance from the automobile, keeping the courier with him. "You do as I say. You get them right up to their rooms; that's the main thing I want you to have on your mind. And as soon as you get it done you go out and get me a couple o' those big Arab jewellers you been talkin' about. You tell 'em I want to see 'em at the hotel and tell 'em to bring the best they got right with 'em. You understand me, John?"
Le Seyeux comprehended with the greatest pleasure. His eyes brightened; he smiled and nodded eagerly. "Without fail! In half an hour after we arrive I will bring them to see you. They will show you some of the most splendid"
Mrs. Tinker's voice, shrill and strained, interrupted them. She leaned farther out of the window and fumbled with the handle of the door as if to open it and descend. "What are you talking about now?" she called fiercely. "Earl! Do you hear me? What do you have to have all these mysterious conferences about? Will you kindly inform me?"
"Mother!" Olivia said imploringly. "Please remember"
"Be quiet, Libby; let me alone!" Mrs. Tinker became impassioned, and she renewed her inquiries to her husband as he drew nearer. "What do you have to talk to the courier so much in secret about? What are all these mysterious"
"Now, Mamma," he said plaintively. "Honey"
"Are you going to answer me? Who do you expect to have pat your shoulder in the next town? What are you"
"Now, Hon"
"Stop calling me that! What was all that secret planning you were doing just then?"
Tinker tried to look dignified and reproachful, partially succeeding. "We were talking about this Bishop," he said. "It was the tomb of this old Bishop we went down there to look at. He was a Bishop."
"Bishop!" The word infuriated her. "Do you have to whisper because you're talking about a Bishop?"
"Well" Tinker said gently, and then, casting about for some means to set himself in the right and Mrs. Tinker in the wrong, he had an inspiration that was a misfortune. "Well—he's dead, isn't he?"
Mrs. Tinker leaped straightway into her other mood. She wept aloud and was with difficulty restrained by Olivia from continuing to weep in that manner through the more populous modern streets upon the site of Augustine's ancient see of Hippo.