# The Man on Horseback/Chapter 13
### CHAPTER XIII
#### BERLIN

Whatever prejudices Tom Graves may have had against Colonel Heinrich Wedekind disappeared during his first twenty-four hours in Berlin and he told himself that either the man must have changed to his advantage during the long years when Martin had not seen him, or that the latter must have been mistaken in his judgment of his brother's character.
For, if anything, Martin had warned Tom against Heinrich in the special delivery letter he had sent care of the steamship office in New York, and here was the Colonel the very image of friendliness and consideration.
True, the man was at times over-polite; with the sort of politeness, different from the spontaneous politeness of the American, which is the result of broad, national kindliness, from the French, which is a racial trait and a virtue bred by logic since it is such an effort to a Latin to be rude, from the English, which is careless and supremely sure of itself, from the Spanish, which is a marvelously delicate art … With the sort of politeness which seemed to have been scientifically and efficiently measured, probed, manufactured, chiseled, clouted, and cut into patterns, distributed by order of the Government, drilled, and trained in a mathematical fashion, together with the three R's. A rectangular, a self-conscious, a holier-than-thou politeness!
But that apart, the man did everything in his power to make Tom feel at home in a strange land.
For it was he who fell discreetly into a doze, in the railway carriage, when he noticed the young Westerner's naïvely clumsy attempts to speak to Bertha in an undertone. It was he who steered him through the throng and mazes of the Lehrter Bahnhof when the train arrived at the capital. It was he who insisted, when Tom wanted to go to a hotel recommended to him by the desk clerk of the New York hotel where he had put up, that he would be more comfortable in a little flat in the West end, on the Kurfürstendamm.
"Snug little four room affair," said the Colonel, "nicely furnished. Belongs to a friend of mine who left town for six months or so and wants to sublet it."
"But," smiled Tom, "I'm not going to stay long in Berlin."
"Na, na!" laughed the Colonel. "We're not going to let you get away from here for quite a while. Better take the flat. It's complete in every detail, and my friend has even left his English-speaking valet behind."
Finally Tom accepted, and an hour later saw him in stalled in a comfortable, compact apartment overlooking the broad, pretentious boulevard known as Kurfurstendamm, which runs in a shiny sweep from the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtniss Church to Halensee a generation ago a thickly wooded pine forest, to-day the most swagger of swagger suburbs, a Berlin Westchester.
The rooms were all the Colonel had said, and so was the valet, a small, thin, clean-shaven man of about thirty with a perfect command of the English language, including even a working knowledge of American slang which he explained, rather apologized for, when Tom asked him, by bowing and saying that he had spent some time on the other side of the Atlantic as valet to an attaché of the German Embassy in Washington.
"Well, if that isn't bully!" exclaimed Tom. "Been to America, have you? Why, that makes me feel real home like. Here. Have a smoke," opening his cigarette case, "Mr …?"
"Krauss!" said the man, bowing again.
"Cut out the wavy motion. You'll injure your spine, Mr. Krauss."
"No, no—I beg your pardon—not Mister Krauss! Just Krauss!" And he added: "May I venture to suggest, sir, that valets are simply addressed by their family names in Germany and"—he coughed discreetly—"that a German gentleman does not offer his cigarettes to a servant?"
"Don't he? Well—this American gentleman does," laughed Tom, good-naturedly.
But when Krauss blushed, positively blushed, shaking his head in speechless embarrassment, Tom felt sorry for him.
"All right," he said. "Don't you worry. I'll smoke it for you. And now … What exactly are you supposed to be good for?"
"Anything, sir, anything!"
"Pretty large order that, Krauss!"
"Yes, sir. I served in some of the best houses in Berlin, sir."
"You have? All right. Let's try you. Know how to make flapjacks?"
Krauss opened his eyes wide. "Flap … Did you say—flap …?"
"Jacks! Sure. Flapjacks! No savvy? Cute little yellow cakes, all hot and sizzlin', and drowned in maple syrup? No? Well, I got to eat some or bust!"
"Ah, it is food?"
"Sure. What'd you think it is?"
The valet curdled his leathery features into a smile.
"I can make a little of the French cuisine," he suggested.
"Not on your life! I ate that on board ship. French cooking mixed up with German! Chicken broth with prunes! Sour herring with chocolate sauce! Little dimpled spring peas stuffed with garlic! No! Flapjacks is what I want, and flapjacks is what I'm going to get. Got flour in the kitchen, eggs, sugar, milk, baking powder, syrup?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine and dandy. Lead the way. I'll make 'em myself!"
And to the German's evident horror, he took off coat, vest, and suspenders, rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbows, and invaded the shiny, immaculate kitchen, whistling Casey Jones at the top of his lungs.
"Don't look so all-fired flabbergasted!" consoled Tom. "I'm going to have a little party all by myself." Suddenly he laughed. "Wait. Got such a thing as a telephone in Berlin?"
"Yes, sir. Certainly, sir."
"Bully. Ring up Lord Vyvyan and tell him … No!" he shook his head. "I'm a darned fool. I forgot to ask him his address."
The valet bowed. "Lord Vyvyan is at the British Embassy."
"Sure. That's where he hangs out. But—" Tom looked up sharply—"how in hell do you know?"
The valet coughed. He blushed a little.
"A—a telegraphic report in the Berlin papers," he murmured, "advising his appointment …"
Tom grinned.
"More wireless cabling without wireless?" he laughed, amused at the other's discomfiture. "Say! Europe isn't asleep by a darned sight. She can sure teach us Americans some! Well—scoot! Put a poached egg in your shoe and beat it! Ring up Vyvyan and tell him to come round here. Tell him to bring along an appetite—and say—some whiskey. Rye, Bourbon, or, at the worst, Canadian Club, unless there's some in the kitchen."
Krauss hurried out while Tom busied himself with flour and milk and baking powder. He was very happy. Bertha had forgiven him. She had asked him to call, and through the open window the warm summer air brushed in, sweet with the scent of birch trees and linden blossoms, and a great crimson sun sinking slowly in the west.
"I beg your pardon, sir," came Krauss' voice from the threshold.
"Sure. What is it?"
"Just as I stepped to the telephone, the bell rang. It was Colonel Wedekind telephoning."
"Yes?"
"He begs you to come to his house for dinner to night. At seven o'clock sharp, sir."
"But I asked you to call up Lord Vyvyan!"
"I am sorry, sir. The Colonel wouldn't take no for an answer."
"Did you tell him I was going to ask Lord Vyvyan?"
"No, sir. I didn't have a chance. He wouldn't take no for an answer. Absolutely wouldn't. And he says you are going to meet an old friend at his house."
"An old friend? At his house? Well, I guess I'd better go. We'll leave the flapjacks and Vyvyan for to-morrow, Krauss."
The latter bowed. "Yes, sir. Very good, sir."
Tom Graves went to his bedroom, where Krauss had already opened the trunks and distributed their contents.
"Say, Krauss," went on Tom, "I guess they'll be all dressed in their best soup and gravy at the Colonel's, eh?"
"Yes, sir. There will be mostly officers, and they'll all be in full uniform, sir. May I"—he coughed—"may I suggest that you wear—ah, evening dress?"
Tom glared at him.
"Say!" said he. "I know what to wear all right, all right. You may have served in some of the best houses in Berlin, but believe me—I have danced in some of the best houses in Spokane. I know. Those little chocolate soldiers will all be in their best bib and tucker, pink and raspberry and sky blue and juicy green. And—decorations! I know. I've seen pictures." Suddenly he laughed. "Say! I got an idea! A real, twenty-two carat, all-wool idea! I'm going to do considerable honor to-night to my native West!"
And he let out a high-pitched, blood-curdling war-whoop which caused the irascible banker on the floor below to speak to his man servant who in turn, knocking discreetly at the back door of Tom's apartment, to be told by Krauss that an American had taken the place.
"Yes. Ein Amerikaner! Ein ganz wilder—a perfectly wild one!"
The communication caused the irascible banker to slam his clenched right fist against his left palm.
"Ach Gott!" he exclaimed. "Ein wilder Amerikaner! Schrecklich!"
His servant bowed in silent sympathy. "The American gentleman's valet told me that his master is going to dine to-night with Colonel Wedekind of the Uhlans of the Guard."
The banker sat up straight.
"What?" he asked. "With Colonel Wedekind—in the most exclusive military clique of Berlin? With Colonel Wedekind, the Emperor's friend? Then he must be something very big in his own country, wild or not wild. Minna!" he called to the other room where his wife, large, elderly, not bad looking in a blowzy, amorphous way, was reading the evening paper. "Minna! Early next week we must send our cards to the American gentleman upstairs …" And husband and wife fell to talking.
In the meantime, the wilder Amerikaner had finished dressing. He entered the taxicab which Krauss had summoned, heard the valet give the driver the Colonel's address—"Dahlmann Strasse No. 67"—and chuckled quietly to himself.
Once or twice he opened the light top coat he wore and looked down at the lapel of his evening dress.
"Sure," he mumbled, "I'm going to do considerable honor to-night to my native West!"