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over there—in Prussia. 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 5 
‘‘Why, Piff—there was a time when I was a great man— 
My father,—proud old councillor to the 
King—took me from Bonn and put me in the army. They said I 
had a future. I climbed fast. In time I rode ‘The Major,’ the 
handsomest horse in The Guard, and when, on the drill-ground or 
_the battlefield, I drew my saber and faced about for the charge’’ 
- Why—we were the wonder of all Europe!’’ 
in the wind and all a whirlwind 
—the ‘‘Count’’ raised his arm dramatically—five thousand blades 
flashed into the air and away we galloped like a thunderbolt— 
the best blades, the best men, the best horses Prussia ever saw.— 
He stood a moment 
with arm upraised, glaring fiercely at the Boss before he went on. 
‘Then the war came. Our armies went, invincible, straight 
into Paris. I was there, Piff—recognized, honored, trusted by the 
great men of state. When we went back to the Fatherland, I 
was a hero. My breast was covered with medals, I sat at table 
with the King, I was loved by beautiful women. Then—Piff,— 
then—’’ he whispered it was a frightful, hissing voice. ‘‘Then, 
Piff—I went wrong!’’ The ‘‘Count’’ bent over the table as if 
he had been struck. A shuddering tremor shook him. When he 
finally straightened up and continued, there was a note of hard- 
ness in his voice. 
‘“Well—they took me out to Potsdam, to the drill-grounds 
that I loved and stood me up alone, before the whole army—the 
infantry on this side, silent and stern; the cavalry on that, with 
‘The Major’ standing out alone, saddled but riderless. Then they 
snatched the helmet from my head—they tore the medals from my 
breast—they cut the buttons from my coat and sleeves and the 
epaulets from my shoulders. They took my sword and broke it and 
threw it at my feet. They ripped the coat from off my back and 
left me standing uncovered to the waist. Then, when all was 
done, a voice spoke sharp and stern: ‘GO!’—Good God!—TI shall 
hear that word through all eternity! 
‘Down between the lines I went, a broken, dishonored man! 
The ranks seemed miles long—that they had no ending. As I went 
along I heard a whinny—and ‘The Major’ came galloping after 
me, just as if he felt my suffering and was sorry. Before I could 
turn to greet him, a horseman ‘caught his bridle and led him 
back. I went on. Way at the end of the plain was a hill. As 
I neared its top, I looked back. Oh Piffle!—there, on the plain be- 
neath was the Army of Prussia at drill—countless thousands of 
marching soldiers stretching as far as the eye could see; heavy 
artillery plunging across-fields, throwing up clouds of dust; squad- 
rons of cavalry in full career, or swinging round on the gallop, 
every man erect in his stirrps and their sabres flashing in the 
sun; bands playing, drums rolling, scores of standards snapping 
splendor of crimson, orange, 
white, blue, scarlet, green and gold—the flash of tens-of-thousands 
of helmets and sabres and a glistening forest of bayonets! And, 
dashing in and out among them all, leading the charge as in days 
gone by, I could make out ‘The Major’ with a new rider. I 
looked on it all and marveled. It had never seemed so splendid 
before. My heart broke then and there and all the man went 
out of me.’’ The ‘‘Count’’ was silent—as if he were reviewing 
it all in his mind. Finally he went on. 
*‘T went home to Dusseldorf, but my father would not see 
me. He sent out a package and a note that read: ‘Here are a 
thousand marks—Go away! Go to the end of the earth and never 
come back! Let me know where you are and [’ll send you money. 
This time my influence has saved you; if you return to Germany, 
it will avail nothing—You’ll go to a dungeon for life!’’ 
“tT went. I’ve wandered everywhere, seen everything, done 
everything. But, wherever I go, when Christmas Eve comes, my 
mind goes back to the days of my glory and the Christmas Eves 
at College and at home. They seem but yesterday—God!—where 
have the years gone! ’’ 
The Boss said nothing and the ‘‘Count’’ lapsed into melan- 
choly musing. The uproar of the feast was at its height. 
‘*Hit his ha rhemarkable cohincidence,’’ came the voice of 
**No. 91’? above all the others. To a beauty in pink, half-way 
down the table, he was describing the sermon he had just heard at 
the Mission. ‘‘Hit his rheally mhost rhemarkable. He  tolt 
habout ha creat hmug-mill, where hevery geek hat whanted to 
could chome, chust like this. Honly hat the hend he ses: ‘Take 
hye heed—there sits death hin the hmidst hof you.’ Whasn’t 
that ha strange—’’ 
““Ah—ferget it!’’ interrupted the beauty. ‘‘Lick up your 
booze and be a gay sport! Don’t go shaking any skeletons! ’’ 
The last word roused Mykos. 
‘«Skeletons—Skeletons!’? he shouted. ‘‘That’s what’s the 
matter here. Everybody’s dead, dead! It’s too damned gloomy. 
This is a time for gayety.’’ Then, waving wildly for silence, he 
called out: 
“*My dear friend—my dear friends in mirth—I am about to 
address you. Everybody must listen!’’ and gave a playful laugh. 
With that he shakily mounted his chair, but, finding this not to 
his liking, he pushed aside a plate with his foot, overturning a 
goblet, and stepped upon the table. 
‘¢Ai-hi he’s a tiger!’’ yelled the ‘regulars, 
applauding uproariously. 
The babel hushed immediately. Drawing himself up to his full 
height and throwing out his chest, Mykos began, in a quiet tone, 
to praise the company for its good behaviour. He was in splendid 
humor and his words never halted. In gesture his hands were as 
quick as his words. Amid sweeping rounds of applause and ring- 
ing gamuts of laughter, he bantered Hee Haw Charley on his un- 
shapely ears and praised the excellence of Diamond Flo’s kisses, 
Then he turned to a discussion of the pretty faces about him. 
He vomited words and phrases of the most grotesque variety, be- 
coming louder in tone and wilder in gesture with each moment. 
Under the continued strain, he lost his vivacity. Puns and jokes 
were set aside for serious subjects—a rambling medley of politics, 
universal peace and the probable origin of the earth. Presently, 
to please some passing whim, he began reciting poetry. Under 
its spell, he gradually calmed. Speaking quietly, but with the 
distinctness of an actor, he skipped from one poem to auother, his 
face now radiant with laughter, now wet with tears. Every 
thought that stirred his brain he spoke, and whatever he spoke 
he acted. He had been speaking and acting for more than an 
hour when, by some mysterious suggestion he began to sing, in a 
soft, but thin and very jerky voice: 
‘‘T dreamed that I dwelt in marble halls 
With vassals and serfs at my side; 
And, of all who assembled within those walls, 
I was the hope and pride. 
I had riches too great to count, 
And a high, ancestral name. 
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most 
That you loved me still the same. 
That you loved me, loved me, st-i-ll 
He stopped. A dead silence fell over the room. Crouching 
backward, biting the fingernails of his left hand, the ‘‘Count’’ 
was staring fixedly at something at the farther end of the table. 
An old man had fallen forward, asleep. In his dreams, his arm 
had swept the table, overturning a goblet of wine—and the arm 
and the tablecloth seemed drenched with blood! 
The spot, growing larger each moment, had arrested the 
‘<Count’s’’ attention. Save for the solitary sleeper, the table was 
deserted; for half the company—the girls—had gone, and the 
other half, bent forward in their chairs or lying on the floor, were 
fast asleep. As long as the ‘‘Count’’ had joked, his gusts had 
understood and applauded; his serious discourse they could not 
understand. Not knowing where to laugh properly, they chose 
not to laugh at all, and, this becoming tiresome, they had fallen 
asleep, or gone, one by one, while the ‘‘Count’’ was absorbed in his 
frenzy. 
The realization maddened him. He wrenched open his collar 
and uttered a cry that startled those about him from their stupor. 
Some, dazed and frightened, moved backward, brushing their 
faces until their senses caught what was going on. One group 
stood totteringly about the door. Another, with arms akimbo, 
stood back of him, blinking and amazed. Only Bachman slept on 
—sprawled on his back, under the table, with the red dregs of the 
goblet dripping upon his forehead and over his snowy hair. 
The ‘‘Count’’ burst out in an onslaught of rage. No one 
could remember what he said; that was not what impressed them. 
It was the spectacle of the man, standing on the table, waving his 
arms, one coat-sleeve ripped back to the shoulder so that it 
dangled by his side; shirt torn open, face livid, staring, sobbing, 
choking for expression, his whole frame shaking! 
Continued on page 20 
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