# Pleased to Meet You/Chapter 17

Sergeant Higgins had had a trying evening. The cellar of the north tower is very nearly beneath the ballroom, and he sat there, angry and perplexed, listening to the clamour of music overhead. Disarmed, his gag was removed and he was given supper and a bottle of excellent vintage, but a couple of stout footmen made it plain that any attempt at escape or disturbance could mean the renewal of bonds and bandage. He had all the American doughboy's disgust at being shut out from any merrymaking in which the other sex participated; and through a small ventilator grating high in his prison he was teased by feminine laughters and light whisperings on the terrace. But philosophy and fatigue presently overcame indignation. He helped himself to an extra bottle of the Burgundy ​stacked in a corner, and fell asleep on a cot-bed against the wall. Thus he was spared, later, the amorous chords of the mouth-organ, which would have puzzled him. The Colonel's moating song was only a few feet from Sergeant Higgins's ear when the punt drifted past the tower.
He was too heavily asleep to stir when a key chirped in the rusty lock and the Colonel and Romsteck entered. Cointreau shook him and he sat up confusedly.
"Well, here we are," remarked the Colonel genially, standing over him with the candle. "The angel of the Lord appears in a vision to the Military Police."
"Aw, quit your kidding. Let a fella sleep," grunted the drowsy M. P. and fell back on his pallet.
"That's no way to greet the angel of the annunciation," observed Cointreau, joggling him again. This not availing, he tilted a few drops of hot candle-grease onto the slumberer's neck, which effectually startled him.
​"Buck up," said the Colonel. "Tidings of great joy. Here's the lost sheep, crawling right into your bosom. What are you doing in the wine cellar?"
"Search me, buddy," said the sergeant peevishly. "I'd like to get my hooks on that bird in the Knights of Pythias clothes. He got me railroaded into this jug—Who'n hell are you?"
"I'm the guy you're looking for."
"The hell you are! Wait a minute, where's my papers——"
"Here," said the Colonel, taking a pulpy document from his pocket. "I'm sorry it got wet. It was the fault of that Knight of Pythias."
The M.P. examined the paper and then held up the candle to look at the Colonel.
"Your hesitation is natural," said Cointreau. "The photo doesn't do me justice."
"I guess it's you. Well, you're under arrest, see?"
"Romsteck, it's a pity you don't savvy ​English," said the Colonel, turning graciously to the major domo. "Here, you've been such a sportsman I'll read you the indictment. The description's quite flattering. Eugene F. Connolly, commissioned first lieutenant ——th Infantry.—I'm afraid I have no right to the name of Cointreau. I chose it because it's my favourite liqueur. It smells like orange blossoms.—Cited for gallantry—here, we can skip that—Regimental interpreter . . . . . five foot eleven, 170 pounds, birthmark—Come, that's too intimate—curly auburn hair, blue eyes, athletic and agile . . . . escaped from Rehabilitation Hospital suffering from shell-shock, psychoneurotic hysteria and dementia jocosa—devilish pedantic, these Freudian terminologies, Romsteck—obsessional fantasies regarding the League of Nations . . . . not be misled by gentlemanly manner and humorous conduct of the patient . . . mentally irresponsible, pathological case of great severity.—Think of their pursuing a man half way across Europe because he's got dementia jocosa."
"That's what the world's come to, sir," ​Romsteck replied gloomily. "If a man laughs too much they think he's crazy. Consider a person in my position. I haven't dared to smile in thirty years."
"Ah well," said the Colonel, "I regret that there are also more serious items that I have omitted."
"I wish the Grand Duke could have known you," said Romsteck. "He always insisted that the Americans have no sense of humour."
"Come, sergeant, we'll be going."
"Now? Whyn't we tear off a little sleep, Lootenant?"
"Nix, old son. Sleep is for the innocent and easy spirit. You and I are going to take the companionable sobvay, unhouseled, disappointed, unannealed. Away, away, charioted by Bacchus and his pards."
"You're the guy, all right," remarked the sergeant. "Plumb cuckoo."
"Romsteck, you'll have to say good-bye to the President for me. I fear he will be distressed. I shall always remember him as I saw him last, ​in his manly nightshirt. By the way, here's a souvenir for you. My credentials from Geneva."
He handed over a small scarlet card stamped in gold, which Romsteck fingered curiously.
"The top of an American cigarette box," the Colonel explained. "The most official-looking thing I know. A friend of mine got into the Treaty Signing at Versailles with one of those.—Come on, sport. Back to the nut college. This way to the egress, as Barnum used to say."
He turned toward the hearth.
"I don't like it, that's the Gawd's truth," said Sergeant Higgins uncertainly. "Goin' out in dark night with a crazy man, me without my gun——"
"I say Yes," cried the Colonel fiercely. "Don't be misled by humorous conduct of patient. Get a move on, curse you."
He picked up the poker, to reach the spring of the passage-way; the M.P., misinterpreting this as an offensive move, leaped at him and they grappled. The door behind them opened with a squeak of ancient hinges.
​"What's the trouble?" said Nyla.
She wore a blue wrapper and carried a candle.
"Gene!" she cried sharply. "Is something wrong?"
The men stood apart. Higgins gaped amazement at this vision of loveliness. Cointreau and Romsteck fidgeted uneasily.
"I heard talking down here, I was afraid someone was ill. Gene, what are you doing? Why are you all dressed?" She ran forward, seizing his arm.
"Damn," murmured the Colonel with feeling. There was a silence while Nyla studied him anxiously.
"Your pardon, Fräulein," said Romsteck. "The Colonel has had an urgent summons from the League."
"Oh," she cried, "and this is the courier to take your reports. I had such a fright. I was afraid you were going."
"I am going," he said. "I'm sorry, I didn't want you to know. I—I guess they're going to send me to America.—I've had an offer from ​a publisher to write my memoirs," he added, with a wretched attempt at jauntiness.
"To America? Gene, let me come with you. Gene darling, let me. I'll go anywhere. I don't mind roughing it. You mustn't go to a place like that without someone to take care of you. T'li work for the League, I'll do anything."
"Say, Lootenant," put in the embarrassed M.P., "I didn't know there was a skirt in this business. If you'll excuse me, I'll step outside with the janitor."
The Colonel at that moment had—no eyes or ears—or arms—for anyone but Nyla. Romsteck beckoned, and the sergeant followed him to the door.
"You'll be O.K. in here, Lootenant. Take your time. I'll wait for you at the top of the stairs."
"Gene, you'll write to me?"
"Of course I will, darling."
"Do you have to go? Is the American republic in trouble too? Fix it up and come back ​soon. Don't get to be too much like an American."
"Honey, I'm sorry, I've got to tell you. I am an American."
"I always knew there was something strange about you," she said softly. "Never mind. Come back soon and attend to the roots. Let me have one good look, so I shan't forget."
She held up the candle, which gave him opportunity to glance at his wrist-watch.
"Hullo," he said. "Where's friend Higgins? Well, never mind. So much the better."
He climbed a chair and poked up the visor in the coat of arms. The passage-way opened.
"Gene, must you go that way? It looks so dark and nasty. Shall I call your courier?"
"No," he said grimly. "He had his chance. Don't let Herr Quackenbush back out of his promise about the debt."
"Gene, I'll study, so we can talk American together."
"Auf wiedersehen, Schätzchen!"
"Gootbye, gootbye," she cried into the ​tunnel in her pretty accent. "Oh Gene, it vas pleasure to have meeted you!"
And she burst into tears.
"Daddy," she said to Herr Guadeloupe at breakfast the next morning. "How much postage is needed on letters to Geneva?"
The end