"Next thing I knowed the room went all foggy. Then I found I was somewhere else than I ought to be, and hell-beg pardon, lady-but honest, if what I went through didn't send me off my nut nothin' ever will!"
It seemed he had almost exactly trod in their footsteps so far as the Market Street Ferry. Beyond that, however, Bertram's adaptable ingenuity had spared him a duplication of their more painful adventures. Though arrested soon after his arrival, he had escaped with proud ease, legalized his status with the "borrowed" identification button, and shortly thereafter a newspaper filched from a convenient pocket had furnished him with a date. "It put me down for the count," said Bertram, "but it give me the dope I needed." That date had been September 21st, 2118.
"Two centuries!" interpolated Drayton in a sort of groaning undertone.
"Yep. Twenty-one eighteen! Old Rip had nothin' on us eh?"
Recovering from the shock, Bertram had determined to recoup his fortunes. Hence, very naturally, the incident of the fire escape, the open window, and Terence Trenmore's hotel bedroom.
"And now," he concluded, "I've come clean; but hell! — beg pardon, lady-what I want to know is this: What was that gray stuff you guys left layin' on the floor?"
"I'll tell you," responded Drayton gravely. "It was dust from the rocks of Purgatory, gathered by the great poet Dante, and placed in this crystal vial by a certain Florentine nobleman. Any other little thing you'd like to learn?"
"I guess not!" The burglar's eyes were fairly popping from his head. "Gee, if I'd heard about that Purgatory stuff, I wouldn't have touched the thing with a ten foot pole!"
"Don't let Mr. Drayton frighten you," laughed Viola. "He has no more idea than yourself what that dust is-or was. That's a foolish old legend, and even Terry doesn't really believe in it."
The Irishman shook his head dubiously. "And if it was not that, then what was it, Viola, my dear?"
Drayton sprang to his feet.
"If we continue talking and thinking about the dust, we shall all end in the madhouse! We are in a tight spot and must make the best of it. Before I for my part can believe that this is the year A.D. 2118, some one will need to explain how the Hotel Belleclaire has remained the Hotel Belleclaire two centuries, without the change of a button on a bell-hop's coat. But that can wait. I move that we spend what's left of the night in sleep. Perhaps"-he smiled grimly-"whichever one of us is dreaming this nightmare will wake up sane to-morrow, and we'll get out of it that way!"
CHAPTER 11: MINE AND COUNTERMINE
DREAMING or not, they all slept late the following morning, and would probably have slept much later had not Trenmore been roused shortly after nine by the house phone. After answering it, he awakened first Viola, then Drayton and Bertram.
"The foxy-faced gentleman-the one they name the Cleverest-he'll be calling on us it seems. Will you dress yourselves? This is a business that no doubt concerns us all."
Five minutes later, Terence emerged to find their tight-mouthed, cunning-eyed acquaintance awaiting him in their private parlor.
"'Tis a fine morning," greeted the Irishman cheerfully. After the few hours' rest, he had risen his usual optimistic, easy-going self, sure that A.D. 2118 was as good as any other year to live in. "Will you be seated, sir," he suggested, "and maybe have a bit of breakfast with the four of us?"
"Thank you, no. I have already eaten and shall only detain you a few minutes. Did I understand you to say there are four of you? I was informed of only three."
Trenmore's bushy brows rose in childlike surprise.
"Four," he corrected simply. "Myself and my sister, my friend Bobby Drayton and Mr. Arnold Bertram. Here they are all joining us now. Viola, my dear, this gentleman is Mr. Cleverest, and-"
The man checked him with upraised, deprecating hand.
"Not Mr. Cleverest I am only a Superlative as yet. But I am charmed to meet you-er-Viola. What a delightful title! May I ask what it signifies in your own city?"
Trenmore frowned and scratched his head.
"We shall never get anywhere at this rate!" he complained.
Drayton came to the rescue. "It might be better, sir, if we begin by making allowances for entirely different customs, here and where we came from. 'Viola' is a given name; it is proper to address the lady as Miss Trenmore. My own name is Robert Drayton; that gentleman is Mr. Terence Trenmore, and this is Mr. Arnold Bertram."
Cleverest bowed, though still with a puzzled expression.
"I admit that to me your titles appear to have no meaning, and seem rather long for convenience. As you say, however, it may be best to leave explanations till later. Time presses. Forgive me for dragging you out of bed so early, but there is something you should know before Her Loveliness plunges you into difficulties. She is likely to be here at any moment. May I ask your attention?"
The man was making a patent effort to appear friendly, though after a somewhat condescending manner.
"You are very kind," said Viola, speaking for the first time, "to put yourself out for us, Mr.-How would you wish us to call you, sir?"
"Just Cleverest-or Clever, to my friends," he added with a smirk of his traplike mouth. "I believe my presence and errand are sufficient proof that I wish you for friends. It is well enough for you, Mr.-er-Trenmore, to enter the contest for Strongest. Lovely knows her own hand in that respect. There will be no question of failure. But for you, Miss Trenmore, it is a different pair of shoes. Have you any idea of the duties connected with the position of Superlatively Domestic?"
"We know nothing," interpolated Trenmore, "about your system of government or your customs at all. 'Tis ignorant children we are, sir, in respect of all those matters."
The man regarded him with narrow, doubting eyes.
"It seems incredible," he murmured. "But your being here at all is incredible. However, I shall take you at your word. You must at least have observed that all our citizens wear a numbered mark of identification?"
"We have that," conceded Trenmore grimly. "I also observe that you yourself wear a red one, that is blank of any number."
"Oh, I am a Superlative." The man smiled tolerantly. "We officials, like the Servants themselves, have our own distinctive insignia. But the commonalty, who have no titles and are known only as numbers, must conform to the law. Otherwise we should have anarchy, instead of ordered government. From what Mr. Mercy has told me, I gather that you considered the penalty for dereliction in this respect too severe. But our people need to be kept under with a strong hand, or they would turn on us like wolves. They have their opportunity to be of those who make the laws. Most of them, however, are far too lazy or vicious to compete.
"Now these competitions-the Civic Service Examinations, as they are properly named-are conducted on a perfectly fair basis. It is a system as democratic as it is natural and logical. The Superlatives are chosen from the people according to fitness and supreme merit. Thus, our legal fraternity is ruled by the Cleverest-my unworthy self. The Quickest has command of the police force. The Sweetest Singer conducts the civic music. So on through all the offices. Above all, under Penn Service, the Loveliest Woman rules, with a consort who may be at her option either the Cleverest or Strongest of men. The system is really ideal, and whoever originated it deserves the congratulations of all good Philadelphians. You, sir," turning to Drayton, "if you pass as Swiftest, will have control of the City Messenger Service."