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Nanik Tolaram

Software Development with Go

Cloud-Native Programming using Golang with
Linux and Docker
Nanik Tolaram
Sydney, NSW, Australia

ISBN 978-1-4842-8730-9 e-ISBN 978-1-4842-8731-6

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-8731-6

© Nanik Tolaram 2023

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively
licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is
concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of
illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in
any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or
dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed.

The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks,

service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the
absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from
the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for
general use.

The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that
the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and
accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the
authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with
respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or
omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral
with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional
affiliations.
This Apress imprint is published by the registered company APress
Media, LLC, part of Springer Nature.
The registered company address is: 1 New York Plaza, New York, NY
10004, U.S.A.
I would like to dedicate this book to my late Dad who stood by me
and encouraged me to write my very first book when I was 17 years
old. To my dearest Mum who always supported me in pursuing my
dreams and encouraged me to keep on going no matter what life
brings. To my beautiful wife and best friend for allowing me the time
to write the book and supporting me in every step of our life. To both
my sons, Rahul and Manav, for allowing me to spend time in front of
the computer on weekends to chase my dream and passion. Last but
not least, to God for giving me this life and opportunity to be where I
am in this world.
Introduction
Go has been out for more than 10 years, and open source projects
were developed using Go. The aim of this book is to show you the
way to use Go to write a variety of applications that are useful in
cloud-based systems.
Deploying applications into the cloud is a normal process that
developers do every day. There are many questions that developers
ask themselves about the cloud, like

How do containers work in a cloud environment?

How do cloud monitoring applications knows how much
memory is left for my virtual machines?
How can I build a high performance networking server in
Linux environment?
How do I scan code before deploying to the cloud to stop
code deployment if it contains related information?

and many other cloud-relevant questions.

The book talk about different topics that are relevant in today’s
cloud environment. The approach is to explain each topic at a high
level and then help you understand it by going through the details
with the code. The book uses combination of open source projects
hosted in GitHub and sample code. The open source projects chosen
are relevant to the topic. You will get a good grasp about the tool and
also how the code works internally.
Any source code or other supplementary material referenced by the
author in this book is available to readers on GitHub
(https://github.com/Apress). For more detailed information, please
visit www.apress.com/source-code.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to everyone on the Apress team who helped and guided me
so much. Special thanks to James Robinson-Prior who guided me
through the writing process and to Nirmal Selvaraj who made sure
everything was done correctly and things were on track.
Thanks to the technical reviewers for taking time from their busy
schedules to review my book and provide great feedback.
Finally, thanks to you, the reader, for spending time reading this
book and spreading the love of Go.
Table of Contents
Part I: System Programming
Chapter 1:​System Calls
Source Code
What Is a System Call?​
C System Call
sys/​unix Package
System Call in Go
Summary
Chapter 2:​System Calls Using Go
Source Code
Syscall Package
syscall Application
Checking Disk Space
Webserver with syscall
ELF Package
High-Level ELF Format
Dump Example
/​sys Filesystem
Reading AppArmor
Summary
Chapter 3:​Accessing proc File System
Source Code
Peeking Inside procfs
Reading Memory Information
Peeking Network Information
 Using the procfs Library
Code Sample
Inside the procfs Library
Summary
Part II: Containers
Chapter 4:​Simple Containers
Linux Namespace
cgroups
rootfs
Gontainer Project
Summary
Chapter 5:​Containers with Networking
Source Code
Network Namespace
Setting Up with the ip Tool
Containers with Networks
Summary
Chapter 6:​Docker Security
Source Code
seccomp Profiles
libseccomp
Docker seccomp
Docker Proxy
Container Attack Surface
Summary
Part III: Application Security
Chapter 7:​Gosec and AST
 Source Code
Abstract Syntax Tree
Modules
Sample Code
gosec
Inside gosec
Rules
Summary
Chapter 8:​Scorecard
Source Code
What Is Scorecard?​
Setting Up Scorecard
Running Scorecard
High-Level Flow
GitHub
GitHub API
GitHub Explorer
Summary
Part IV: Networking
Chapter 9:​Simple Networking
Source Code
TCP Networking
TCP Client
TCP Server
UDP Networking
UDP Client
UDP Server
 Concurrent Servers
Load Testing
Summary
Chapter 10:​System Networking
Source Code
Ping Utility
Code Walkthrough
DNS Server
Running a DNS Server
DNS Forwarder
Pack and Unpack
Summary
Chapter 11:​Google gopacket
Source Code
gopacket
Layer
Packet
Using gopacket
pcap
Networking Sniffer
Capturing With BPF
Summary
Chapter 12:​Epoll Library
Source Code
Understanding epoll
epoll in Golang
Epoll Registration
 Epoll Wait
Epoll Library
Summary
Part V: Securing Linux
Chapter 13:​Vulnerability Scanner
Source Code
Vulnerability Scanners
Using Vuls
Checking Out the Code
Running Scan
Learning From Vuls
Port Scan
Exec
SQLite
Summary
Chapter 14:​CrowdSec
Source Code
CrowdSec Project
Using CrowdSec
crowdsec.​db
Learning From CrowdSec
System Signal Handling
Handling Service Dependencies
GeoIP Database
Summary
Part VI: Terminal User Interface
Chapter 15:​ANSI and UI
 Source Code
ANSI Escape Code
ANSI-Based UI
Color Table
Styling Text
Open Source Library
Gookit
Spinner
Summary
Chapter 16:​TUI Framework
uiprogress
Code Flow
Updating Progress
Bubbletea
Init
Update
View
Summary
Part VII: Linux System
Chapter 17:​systemd
Source Code
systemd
systemctl
Hello Server systemd
go-systemd Library
Summary
Chapter 18:​cadvisor
 Source Code
Running cAdvisor
Web User Interface
Architecture
Initialization
Manager
Monitoring Filesystem
Information from /​sys and /​proc
Client Library
Summary
Index
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 CHAPTER VIII.
A BACHELOR PROTECTORATE.
Craig has himself seen enough of the daily life along the Midway to
feel some sympathy for his companion, whose doleful refrain has at
least the merit of sincerity.
The popularity of the Midway was something of a joke during the life
of the Fair, but never questioned. It is since the close of the great
Exposition that the people of this country have gradually awakened
to the fact that as a congress of nations, this Plaisance was the most
successful thing ever planned and executed.
Everyone has pleasant memories of hours spent in strolling up and
down, of queer sights witnessed, and, perhaps, singular adventures
in connection with these people from the four quarters of the earth.
In every prominent city of the land these memories have been kept
alive by a series of entertainments, representing the Midway in the
height of its glory; breezy items can be found in the papers,
describing the wonders of the world’s highway, and many snatches
of glowing rhetoric attest to the pleasure derived by the writer in the
scenes on the Plaisance. In defense of Wycherley, who haunted
these scenes until he loved them as a Parisian is devoted to his city,
it may not be out of place to reproduce one of these items which
appeared recently in a prominent Western paper:

“It was not until about July 1 that the denizens of the merry Midway
got their houses and shops in order, and settled down to business.
They easily made up for lost time, however, and during the four
bright happy months that followed, the famous street was far and
away the principal popular attraction of the Fair. Those who went to
spend the whole day at the Exposition, equipped with lunch, camp
chair, and guidebook, usually turned up in the Plaisance about every
two hours. Others who made briefer visits to the park either began
or ended them in the same attractive quarter. School teachers, who
made out their programme for the educational features in the Liberal
Arts building, generally landed in Cairo Street. Students of sculpture
who went with the best intentions of studying the marble models in
the Art Palace, ended by studying living models in the Moorish
Palace. Ministers who hoped to prepare themselves for missionary
work, were easily persuaded that they would be best equipped by
looking over the Dahomeyans and South Sea Islanders. And as to
young America—well, the day for him was not done till he had
tossed off half a dozen or more bumpers of beer in Old Vienna.
“All this is now a memory. The places that knew these merry parties
shall know them no more forever. The Samoan now sits serenely
under his island palm; the Bedouin is again astride his steed, and
with shaded eyes looks off across the desert; the Egyptian 'neath
the shadow of the mighty pyramids, recounts the marvels of his half
year in the New World; and the sad-eyed Cingalese woman tells her
sisters in 'the gorgeous East’ about the wondrous West; while the
American, whose energy and genius reared it all, now sees those
sights through a darkened glass, and faintly hears the once familiar
sounds, muffled and indistinct, as of a distant troop of boys at play.
He goes plodding on in paths of busy commerce, farther and farther
along, till time and distance intervene, and Midway sights grow
dimmer still, and Midway sounds sink to a whisper.”

These then are the feelings that cause the Thespian such sorrow. He
hates to think that before snow flies this gay scene will have
vanished as a dream, never to be seen again.
“Cheer up, my dear fellow,” says Aleck, “there will be other fairs as
great as this.”
“But never again a Midway. However, let us throw dull care to the
winds. It ill becomes us to mourn, we who are butterflies of the
hour. What would you now, my lord?”
Wycherley smiles again—the passing of his grief has been very rapid
—for his nature is buoyant.
“I have no plans. We can move around until it is time to go. I am
impressing this scene on my mind so that at any future day I may
reproduce it by simply closing my eyes. When before now, on
American soil, could you see such groups as that sauntering along?”
nodding in the direction of a squad of Algerians and Moors walking
past, clad in the turban and caftan, burnoose and colored robes of
their class, with the inevitable heavy slippers on their feet.
Close behind come a trio of Celestials chattering like parrots, while in
sight at the same time are one or more natives of India, Dahomey,
and Lapland, representing the antipodes. It is the bringing together
of people who live at the frozen north, and those from the burning
equator; the exposition of their home life, their peculiar habits, their
war customs, and marriage ceremonies, that lends such a charm to
a gathering like this. Contrast it by a visit to the Liberal Arts building
and see what civilization does for the human family, what wonderful
treasures are within the grasp of everyone who lives to-day in an
enlightened community.
Just as the squad of Moors and Algerians move past in their
sauntering way, Wycherley is heard to utter an exclamation.
“Who would have believed it?” he says.
“What now?” asks Aleck, wondering if his companion is dreaming of
the fortune he is to win or lose on the morrow.
“She is a flirt, I do believe,” continues the actor.
“Oh, it’s the dark-eyed Spanish senorita who worries the boy. Never
mind; remember there’s as good fish in the sea as ever were
caught.”
“You’re a Job’s comforter, Aleck. Under the circumstances, physician,
heal thyself,” retorts the other.
“Eh? What now?”
“It chances to be the young woman in whom you have such a deep
interest.”
At this Craig becomes all attention.
“You mean Dorothy—where is she?” he demands.
“Hush! not quite so loud, my boy. Glance over yonder, she is just
going into the Japanese bazaar.”
As Craig looks he receives a shock. The brilliant lights fall upon a
face he cannot forget and which is just being covered by the light
veil attached to her hat. Dorothy it is, the millionaire’s daughter. His
interest is quickly aroused, and under the circumstances it is not at
all strange that he should desire to see who her male companion
may be.
They are conversing eagerly, as though deeply interested in each
other. Another moment and the bazaar has closed upon them.
“Let us follow,” suggests Wycherley, at once.
Aleck hesitates.
“I’m not sure that it would be just the thing,” he says doubtfully, but
the other gives a scoffing laugh.
“Tell that to the marines. You want to go—you have a deep interest
in this young lady, and it is but natural you should want to see who
her companion is. Come.”
The temptation is irresistible.
“I can buy another cane, at any rate,” he mutters.
“How many have you got now?” asks Wycherley.
“Two dozen or more. It’s a fad of mine, you see.”
They enter the bazaar, which, if not a very spacious building, is at
least well-stocked, and usually crowded with sight-seers or
purchasers. Aleck endeavors to keep at a distance from the pair
whose entrance has inspired their action, at the same time he
manages to direct numerous glances at the gentleman in question.
“Well, what d’ye make of him?” asks Wycherley.
“I am favorably impressed with his looks,” is the frank response that
causes a low whistle of surprise to leave the actor’s lips.
“Well, I’ll be hanged! In confidence between us, my dear fellow, I
quite agree with you. Looks like an independent young chap. There’s
something about his style, his bronzed face and hands, the soft hat
he wears, and his general get-up, that suggests the miner to me.”
“Well, it didn’t occur to me before, but now that you mention it I can
see the same thing. What it means, I am at a loss to say.”
“See how fondly she clings to him.”
“Claude, you are cruel.”
“Nonsense, my dear boy. Follow my example. When I found my cake
was dough, I gave her up without a struggle. That’s diplomacy in
love matters. I learned it long ago, on the stage. Go thou and do
likewise. Seriously, I reckon you haven’t the ghost of a show there,
so be philosophical, my merry bachelor, and take things as they
come. As for myself, I’m trying to place this gentleman; something
about his face seems familiar. It may be I’ve noticed him on the
Midway at some time.”
Aleck buys his cane, and continues to keep a good distance between
the couple and himself. They are simply looking at the curios
displayed by the cunning Japs, and appear to be more engrossed
with each other than the objects around. All of which causes our
bachelor the most peculiar sensations of his life.
At one moment he has firmly resolved that he will not seek the
presence of this fair one on the succeeding night, and immediately
he has bitter reflections, of which he is ashamed later on, reflections
that bear upon Dorothy in the sense of her mother being brought up
in the peculiar tenets of Oriental life, which in a measure may have
descended to the daughter.
Again his mind undergoes a change, and he scores himself for such
a thought. He remembers the face first seen under the wintry sky of
Canada, and again on the Ferris wheel of the Midway; remembers
that she claimed her mission to be a sacred one, and until further
proof to the contrary is brought he must believe in her innocence.
What if this is some lover who has incurred the parental anger, and
whom she dares not receive at home—he has the face and bearing
of a true man.
“Don’t imagine you have a mortgage on her affection, Aleck Craig,”
he mutters sneeringly, as if to mock the strange feeling of pain that
assails his heart; “and it's none of your business if by chance she
has met her fate before discovering that a bachelor of your size was
haunting the Fair looking for her. Well, perhaps I may strike up an
acquaintance with this young fellow, and, confound it—be a brother
to her yet.”
“I thought it would happen. I looked for just that same thing to
occur,” breaks in Wycherley, in a thrilling stage whisper.
“What now?” asks Craig guiltily, fearing he has again been talking
indiscreetly above his breath.
“Wait a minute! Examine these elegant tablecloths worked with silk;
aint they beauties? Now, the coast of Bohemia is clear.”
Aleck of course turns his head quickly to see who has caused such
commotion in the mind of his companion, and Wycherley watches
the face of the Canadian, well knowing it will be an index to his
feelings. A figure is moving down the aisle—a woman dressed
attractively, but heavily veiled. As soon as Aleck’s eyes fall upon her
graceful form, he is struck with the peculiar charm of her person,
and the actor seeing this bends over to say:
“I see, you, too, have guessed her identity. It is the Veiled Fortune
Teller of Cairo Street—and yonder is Dorothy. Perhaps the strange
events of this remarkable night are not yet concluded, my dear boy.”
BOOK TWO.
The Man from Denver.
 CHAPTER IX.
NEWS FROM COLORADO.
Wycherley is right; Aleck has recognized the cloaked figure. There is
some undefinable quality about her carriage that betrays her—a
gliding movement, so totally unlike the action of an American. What
adds power to the suspicion is the fact that she seems to follow the
couple whose movements Aleck and his companion have been
watching.
“I feel as though some sort of crisis were approaching, Claude. Now
do you suppose she suspects what manner of face that veil hides?”
he asks his friend.
“Oh, as to that, Dorothy has thrown back the veil impatiently a
dozen times in order to look at some curio, but, being bothered with
the bold glances her beauty draws from some of the visitors here,
lets it drop again. If this be Marda, as you seem to imagine, depend
on it, she has seen the girl’s face.”
“What will she do?”
“Ah! there I must confess my weakness. We might consult the black
Nubian who holds forth in that sacred chamber of the mosque.”
“To the deuce with him and his folly. I imagine we can get a better
answer by watching these people, though, in one way, it goes
against my grain to play the detective.”
“Bah! you’re too conscientious. Remember, we are not mere curiosity
mongers, nor reporters seeking a sensation, but sworn protectors to
this lovely Hebe, who lacks a brother’s care. Under such
circumstances, Aleck, anything is fair in love or war.”
“Be it so. I must accept your version, and stifle my dislike to the task
by remembering the demands of duty.”
“Bravo! you’ll get there yet. They are quitting the bazaar, and she is
close behind. Now watch me play a little side game.”
In an instant Wycherley has managed to pass around a table and
meet the cloaked and veiled figure at the doorway. The execution of
the maneuver is first-class. A bent pin or some such object in the
lapel of his coat catches the floating veil, and for the second time
inside an hour the Cairo Street fortune teller finds herself shorn of
the gauzy covering that has been used to screen her features.
“I really beg pardon! too awkward of me, to be sure. You—why, can
it be Miss Dorothy Cereal?” says the vagabond, with a look of well-
simulated surprise.
The other hastily replaces the veil, but not before he notices the
alarm and perturbation his pretended recognition has caused.
“No, no,” she mutters wildly; “it is one mistake, sir. I assure you.”
Then she darts out of the bazaar door like a frightened deer.
Wycherley laughs softly to himself at his success.
“What do you think, now?” he asks of Aleck, who joins him outside.
“There can be no mistake about her identity. We have yet to learn
whether this can be the Marda of the past, the mother whom
Dorothy has been taught to believe dead.”
“I believe I have settled even that,” declares the actor. “Come, let us
continue to keep them in sight while we talk.”
“You said something to her as you bowed with the grace of a
Chesterfield. I was not near enough to hear what it was.”
“But you noticed her confusion?”
“It was very apparent.”
“I pretended to believe it was Miss Cereal, and addressed her by
that name.”
“Jove! and she——”
“Denied it with a trembling voice and great earnestness. I have
known all along she was a foreigner from the quaint way she had of
expressing herself in English. Upon my word I am more and more
inclined to believe your remarkable theory to be true.”
So they saunter along, keeping a safe distance behind, yet close
enough to see all that occurs. The two in front talk together in low
tones such as would befit lovers. More than once Aleck finds a bitter
feeling taking root in his heart, and it is only through severe
measures that he is able to crush it. A new experience is being
forced upon him, and when he realizes how his work of the early
night must go for naught if there is another Richmond in the field,
he smiles in the grim way some men have when inflicting torture
upon themselves. He could not look more rigid and contemptuous
were he holding a red-hot iron to his flesh and searing the fang-
marks left by a mad dog.
As for Wycherley, that merry rascal appreciates the situation—and
though incapable of experiencing the same sensations that creep
over Aleck, he knows what it means. In his accustomed way he
jokes about it.
“Feel like you’re marching to your own funeral, eh, Craig? Never
mind, you can still be a brother to her. Great institution that. To my
personal knowledge I occupy that delightful place of uncertainty to a
dozen dainty despots here and abroad. I am connected, as it were,
by ties of consanguinity to nearly every city of first importance in the
world. Oh, take a veteran’s advice, my dear boy, and let no such
little trouble disconcert you. A merry life—to enjoy pleasure as she
flies—that’s my motto, and sad will be the day when I part from it.”
There are grains of sound philosophy in much that this strange
genius says, if one can only separate the wheat from the chaff. Craig
hears as in a dream, for his mind is upon those ahead. Shall he
continue this espionage? Is it right? Where is the middle-aged
duenna who was with Dorothy earlier in the evening? He knows she
is secretly in the pay of the plotting pasha, but the young girl must
as yet be ignorant of this fact. Perhaps she has left the other at a
certain place, where she may be found later.
It is growing late.
By degrees even the Midway is thinning out, for people know the
horrors awaiting them in the grand crush for accommodations on the
street cars, and are urged to hurry on this account, though none of
them ever escape the jam.
While passing the large building where the Tyrolese warblers invite
the passers-by to gaze upon the cyclorama of the Alps, some
impulse causes the couple ahead to enter, and the veiled woman, as
if led by an attraction she cannot resist, follows.
“Let us wait here. They must come out by this door,” says Craig, glad
of a chance to consider the matter in its several bearings.
Presently he becomes aware of the fact that Wycherley is shaking
hands with a gentleman and indulging in a chat. Their voices are
deadened by the many sounds of the Midway, which never quiets
down until midnight, but when he glances toward them a few
minutes later, Aleck can see from the dramatic gestures of his friend
that the vagabond Thespian has received information on some score
that excites him, but the rapid thoughts crowding upon his brain
prohibit his taking any interest in what they may be gossiping over.
He takes a second look at the man, however, and upon seeing his
style, somehow inclines toward the belief that whoever he may be
he comes out of the rowdy West. His laugh is like the roar of a bull,
and his voice reminds one of a storm muttering in the Rockies, it is
so deep and bass.
Craig begins to gather the several threads of his opinions together,
just as the driver of a four-in-hand might secure the various reins, in
order to make a clean run. He is making fair headway when an
interruption occurs, and frowning, Aleck looks up to see the jocund
actor at his side, having the unknown in tow.
“My friend, Bob Rocket—Aleck Craig. Two good fellows who should
know each other,” says Wycherley, and the Canadian feeling his hand
caught as in a vise, realizes that his comrade has betrayed him, and
is in duty bound to return the grip.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Craig. Had a chum by your name once, poor
fellow.”
“Ah! something happened to him, then?” Aleck is interested enough
to remark.
“Hoss thieves—Mexicans—shot the poor boy. I made ’em sweat, you
understand. There was no rest for me till that score was wiped out,”
returns the ruddy faced man, gritting his strong teeth, and with a
strange light flashing in his eyes.
“I judge you are from the West, Mr. Rocket.”
“Yes. Colorado is my roost at present. I was born on the border and
brought up among the wildest scenes a man ever looked on. In
Mexico I’ve been with the revolutionists. I’ve mined in Idaho and
Montana, and been peace officer in a dozen Territories and States.
At present I’m a sheriff in Colorado.”
“Indeed! You know my friend here. Where did you ever run across
this rolling stone?”
The sheriff’s face suddenly grows soft, as he turns his head upon
Wycherley, and there is unassumed tenderness in his voice as he
says:
“I’ll tell you, sir. It was several years back, that terrible winter we
had in Colorado. I had hard luck and came near passing in my
checks on account of a gunshot wound received while arresting a
desperado—but I got him, and he stretched hemp, I’m telling you.
“Things went wrong at home, and my mother and little sister were
nigh starved. As soon as I could travel I went to Denver and found
that only for the kindness of a man who had a room in the same
tenement, and who was constitutionally dead broke, they would
have given up the ghost. He had spent every cent he could lay hold
of on them, strangers as they were. That man was Claude
Wycherley, the actor. Do you wonder I love him like a brother?”
“Come, come, you make me blush. What I did pleased me. God
knows I couldn’t have followed any other course. Say no more about
it,” cries the vagabond.
“You are doing the Fair, I presume?” remarks Craig, glad to hear
such a good report of one who hides his light under a bushel.
The sheriff and Claude exchange glances.
“Yes; I may say I have taken it in, but only as a secondary
consideration.”
“Come, I like that. Better not let a Chicagoan hear such a remark.
They are very sensitive. I have no doubt Colorado could have done
better, but——”
“Oh, you mistake me, Mr. Craig. I meant that as I was here to look
for a man, I had to give much of my time to the search, and,
therefore, what I have seen of the Fair has been, as you might say,
on the sly,” returns the sheriff, whose manner lacks the ease of a
polished gentleman.
“And have you met with any success?”
“I have located him at last. He is in yonder building. A clever and a
daring fellow. He made way with fifty thousand dollars belonging to
the Hecla Mining Company, of which this same John Phœnix was
treasurer. The president and manager of the company, probably as
wealthy a man as Colorado boasts, though a stranger to me, was
away, but in his absence the directors wired me to start after
Phœnix, and said a photograph of him would be sent to me in
Chicago. When it arrived I set to work, and gradually ran the fellow
down. Would you believe me, he actually had the brass to take the
president’s name. Yes, at a small hotel I found him registered as
John Atherton, and putting on all the airs of a substantial mine king.
I didn’t take him in at once—some little legal affair to comply with,
you understand. Besides, I wanted to learn something about him, so
I wired my employers and ever since I’ve just kept an eye on
Phœnix while waiting for an answer.”
Craig is interested in the narrative, because, being a man who has
seen something of life, he appreciates such a dramatic situation.
“You are fortunate then, Mr. Rocket,” he says.
“I mention these facts to you because you see, Claude, here, says
you’re interested in the young fellow,” continues the Colorado sheriff.
“I? Impossible!” exclaims Aleck, glancing from his friend to the man
from the West.
“Oh, yes you are! Show him the photo, Bob.”
Whereupon the sheriff takes out a cardboard and hands it over to
the Canadian. It is somewhat battered from lying in the pocket of
the officer, but the picture is plainly seen, and Craig holds his breath
with sudden awe as the electric lights fall upon the features of the
young miner whom he saw in the company of Dorothy.
 CHAPTER X.
THE VENGEANCE THAT SLUMBERED TWENTY YEARS.
Craig makes no remark, but hands the picture back. Somehow,
instead of feeling exultant over the fall of a possible rival, his
thoughts are wholly of Dorothy. It looks as if she must soon receive
a terrible blow, and he feels sad.
“Sorry if he’s a friend of yours, Mr. Craig, but business is business.”
“Never saw the young man before half an hour ago. I only take an
interest in him because he is with Samson Cereal’s daughter.”
“Ah! that charming young woman is a child of the shrewd old
speculator, eh?”
“I trust you may not feel it your duty to arrest him while in her
company. It would be a terrible shock,” continued Aleck.
The sheriff manages to exchange a sly wink with Wycherley, as if to
declare that he can see through a mill stone with a hole in it.
“Probably not, Mr. Craig. At least, I hope such will not be the case.
When my telegram arrives, I am bound to let as little time as
possible slip through my hands before making sure of my man. In all
my experience—and it’s been considerable, let me tell you, young
fellow—I’ve found that these quiet chaps are the most to be feared,
the most tricky.”
“I don’t question it,” remarks Aleck, who seems disinclined to further
conversation, and leaves the others to chat upon various topics,
while he wrestles with the momentous question that has such a
bearing on his life.
Thus time passes.
Those in the cyclorama building begin to pour forth, having feasted
their eyes upon the glories of the Alps. Among them comes the
couple whose actions have interested our friends.
Sauntering behind they are not noticed in the throng heading for the
exit.
“Look,” says Wycherley, “they are three; it is the middle-aged
duenna again. She sold herself to the pasha. Dorothy leans on a
broken rod when she puts any faith in her.”
That is one of the problems Craig is trying to solve. He feels that
Dorothy should know the truth, and yet hardly cares to be the one
to tell her. If he lets it go until the succeeding night that may be too
late. What would he not give for a favorable opportunity.
“They separate; he has business back in the Fair grounds. Stand
here and watch,” says the Colorado officer, suddenly turning them
into a place of shadow, which he is easily able to do, as he walks
between Craig and the actor with arms locked.
It is as he says. John Phœnix is bidding the young girl good-night.
Aleck gnaws his mustache a little nervously as he watches them, just
as though a sudden fear has burst into his bachelor heart lest the
good-looking scamp may take Dorothy in his arms with a bold lover’s
right.
Nothing of the sort occurs, however. He takes her hand and says
something that causes Dorothy to hang her head, but as to the
nature of her emotion the Canadian is utterly in the dark. While he is
musing Phœnix is gone.
Upon turning his head Aleck discovers that Bob Rocket has also
disappeared. The man from Colorado does not mean to allow any
chance to slip through his fingers. All he awaits is the receipt of a
telegram.
The two women have not yet gone on, but stand where Phœnix has
left them. Can it be possible they wait for his return? Craig chances
to look beyond and catches a glimpse of a figure there, a figure he
knows. It is the fortune teller of Cairo Street, who hovers near by, as
though eager to approach Dorothy, yet restrained by a fear lest the
girl should repulse her. Thus, in the agony of doubt she reaps the
sad harvest of the past.
It is an open question whether the women have seen or paid the
least attention to this figure in black that hovers near by, just as a
poor moth flutters around a candle that will singe its bright wings.
They talk together and as Aleck observes closer, he becomes
assured that something else claims their attention, something that
lies between them and the exit.
Before he can discover what this can be, his companion says in a
surprised tone:
“Why, there’s the Turk—the pasha.”
“That explains it. She has discovered him in her way, too late to call
Phœnix back, and is now trying to convince her companion that they
had better seek another exit,” Aleck says hastily.
“And as the woman is in the employ of the Turk, as this very affair
has all been arranged while the others were in the Japanese bazaar,
or viewing the scenery of the Alps, her words fall upon deaf ears,”
continues Wycherley.
“But Scutari dare not attempt violence.”
“You forget he is a Turk, and naturally brings some of his Bosphorus
habits here with him. Samson Cereal ran away with his bride in a
manner just as bold. More than one person has come to the World’s
Fair and never been heard of again. It’s a great maelstrom of
humanity, and a single person could be sucked out of sight without
being noticed.”
Craig is fully aroused.
It comes to him with full force that Heaven has again been kind.
Should Dorothy need help, to what better use can his muscular
ability be put than in defending her against this relentless enemy,
this Oriental whose one mission in life, after this lapse of years,
seems to be revenge upon the daring speculator who robbed him of
the bride his gold had bought on Georgian soil?
He, too, has, by this time, discovered the pasha, who does not
appear to be alone, since several men hover around him, men
wearing the fez, but whether Turks or not remains to be seen.
It is as though one were suddenly transported to a street in
Stamboul. In imagination the sounds incident to that queer city on
the Golden Horn assail the ear: the tinkling of silvery bells, the
strident voice of the muezzin on the minaret calling to prayer, the
dismal chant of dervishes, the howling of mongrel curs that after
nightfall roam the streets. Wycherley, who has been there, rubs his
eyes to make sure he is not dreaming. In the quaint Midway,
surrounded with its remarkable features, jostling elbows with the
odd people of the other hemisphere, it must always be hard to
realize one is within the city limits of bustling Chicago, empress of
the West.
The discussion between Dorothy and her faithless duenna lasts but a
couple of minutes, but this is time enough for Aleck to notice many
things.
It seems almost incredible that Aroun Scutari should dare attempt
such a bold game; but who can fathom the depths of daring to
which an unscrupulous man will descend when he desires to see his
enemy and go one better! The clever coup d’état executed by
Samson years ago has remained a thorn in the pasha’s flesh. Time
has served to make the wound more irritable, and this
Mohammedan comes to the great Fair with but one idea uppermost
in his mind—to find the man who defied him on Turkish soil, to turn
the tables by stealing his child from under his roof.
Craig grinds his teeth at the bare thought, it is so repugnant to him.
Then he realizes what strange surroundings fate has placed him
amongst. Surely such opportunities for serving Dorothy can have but
one natural outcome—he may win her, despite the young miner. The
remembrance of this worthy causes Aleck a qualm, but he banishes
the sensation.
Now the two cloaked figures move again. Dorothy has yielded to her
companion’s guidance, and they are advancing. The Canadian
cannot but admire the proud pose of the young girl. He remembers
that she faced danger once before in the car of the Ferris wheel
when the crazy professor was raging about like an escaped mad-
house patient.
Fear is not an element in her heart, and yet some hidden faculty
whispers of danger. She has never forgotten the awful look of hatred
which this Turk shot into the face of her father when by chance they
met on the Plaisance, and it has ere now been patent to her mind
that some link in the far away past connects their destinies.
Seeing the pasha hovering there, Dorothy has conceived the idea
that he means harm to her, and while the seductive voice of her
companion assuages her alarm, it is with something of the feeling
with which a soldier marches up to the muzzle of a cannon that
Dorothy advances in the direction of the Turk.
Then comes the devilish deceit of the woman who has sold herself
for gold. She knows the time is at hand for delivering the goods. No
doubt the stake is a rich one, since by this stroke she must sever all
connection with her patroness, upon whose bounty she has long
lived.
This bundle of deceit now turns upon her unsuspicious companion.
The plot has been carefully arranged, and art is called upon to
render assistance.
Craig and his companion see the woman lay a hand upon the
shoulder of Dorothy; the latter appears to shake her head negatively.
Then the other draws closer. Why should she embrace the girl thus?
Aleck stares in wonder, his whole frame thrilled with the strange
character of the scene. As yet he has not grasped its full meaning.
“Good Heaven! I believe she is fainting!” he says, with evident
excitement.
“It’s worse than that, my dear boy,” comes in the voice of his
companion, but it sounds afar off.
“How worse? Good God, man, you don’t mean that bright, angelic
creature has been stricken with death?” for Dorothy’s struggles
appear to grow weaker, until she lies almost motionless in the arms
of her faithless companion, a dead weight.
“No, no. What I mean is that she has succumbed to chloroform, or
some devilish Turkish drug of a similar character, administered upon
the white kerchief that woman fiend holds over her face—that limbs
and mind are paralyzed, that she may fall into the spider’s web.
Here, look at the monster advancing; note his grim smile, his hands
outstretched to take his prey, his—— Jove! Craig, old boy, you’re
gone, are you? Well, here’s after you.”
 CHAPTER XI.
YOUNG CANADA ON DECK.
When the full meaning of what has happened flashes into Craig’s
mind—when he sees Aroun Scutari, lord of the harem and pasha in
the Sultan’s service, about to take Dorothy Cereal in his arms, it
seems as though an electric battery must have suddenly become
attached to the Canadian, so abrupt are his movements.
Leaving the side of the actor, while the other is speaking, he rushes
straight for the scene of the kidnaping. Perhaps love urges his steps.
At least the indignation of an honorable man sends him forward.
There is no palliation, no excuse for such an outrage, and hence the
feeling he entertains for Scutari is that of righteous anger. Such a
scene as this, of course, creates excitement. People gather quickly,
no matter if it be a dog fight on the streets of Constantinople, an
encounter between dragoman and donkey boy at Cairo on the Nile,
an attempted assassination of a Czar at St. Petersburg, or a duel
between two bootblacks in front of the City Hall in New York.
Already a score of people surround the two women. Questions fly
back and forth. The authoritative manner in which Scutari assumes
charge convinces those present that the lady who has fainted
belongs to him. The veil hides her face, and while curious glances
are cast in that quarter, none are so lucky as to see what lies under
its screen.
Near by is the exit. Beyond, no doubt, the Turk has a carriage ready.
His years of waiting seem about to be crowned with triumph—
though he lost the mother he wins the daughter. Kismet: it is fate.
Unexpected obstacles arise in his path—obstacles which in his native
land he could brush aside, or at least subdue with the sword, but
which are of a more serious nature under the civilizing influence of
the Stars and Stripes.
First of all, as the man from Stamboul is about to take Dorothy in his
arms, he is surprised to find someone tugging at his sleeve,
someone who seems bent upon distracting his attention, and who
will not cease even when he gives a bearlike shrug.
When he hears a woman’s voice pouring upon his devoted head all
the miserable names known in the Turkish language, the pasha,
struck by a sudden recollection, thinks it worth while to turn his
attention thither.
Of course it is the fortune teller; she realizes the peril of her child.
Since the day when Samson Cereal stole her away, she has learned
to look at the old-time habits of the Turks with aversion, and the
mother love in her heart, which nothing on earth can destroy, urges
her to save Dorothy.
As well might she appeal to a Nero. This dark-skinned man comes
from a country where women are bought and sold. As he sees who
thus annoys him, he frowns like a Tartar, and bellows out a string of
oaths strange to the gathering crowd.
There are those who hear, those who know his voice but to obey.
Two men seize upon the fortune teller of Cairo Street, and despite
her struggles bear her away.
“She is crazy,” is the only reply they make to the questions showered
upon them, as they half drag the woman further into the Plaisance.
Again the triumphant pasha bends forward to relieve the woman of
her lovely burden, but, shades of Mohammed! what is this that now
descends upon him with the fury of a young hurricane? What but
the Canadian protectorate, bent upon stepping between Turkey and
the daughter of Chicago!
One fling Craig gives the stout pasha, only a single flip of his well-
trained arms, and the Oriental goes spinning around like a teetotum
or a whirling dervish, bringing up in the arms of a gay young fellow
who has just come from the beer tables of Old Vienna and is
consequently in a hilarious condition.
“Set ’em up in t’other alley,” he shouts; “don’t send ’em in so hard.
Whoop! now you’re in the game, old man; back you go,” with which
the breezy reveler gives Aroun Scutari another whirl, which sends
him halfway back again, a collision with an elderly woman bringing
his mad dance to a sudden stop, as both of them fall over, and her
startled screams add to the clamor.
No sooner has Aleck entered the affair than he has his hands full.
His action in seizing upon the sacred person of the Turk was
equivalent to throwing down the gauntlet, and the Canadian is
immediately set upon by a number of worthies whose itching palms
have been crossed with the gold that makes them slaves to Scutari.
He is in his element, this man of Montreal: not that such a brawl is
to his liking, but the object for which he strives is a sacred one to a
gentleman—the defense of innocence.
They are four to one, and ugly customers at that. Aleck is no
Admirable Crichton, and if left to himself, no matter how gallant his
attack, he must presently go down before the numbers opposed to
him.
The crowd seems paralyzed; in an affair of this kind, men usually
believe it none of their business, but stand by and let those
interested fight it out.
Through the fringe of spectators, however, someone pushes a way.
It is Wycherley in search of his friend, and upon seeing Aleck so
beset he throws himself into the breach, which evens up the game a
little. More help comes from an unexpected quarter. The half-
intoxicated young fellow, whose muscular ability sent Scutari flying
on the back trip, has evidently been spoiling for a fight. He picks out
his man and faces him with the air of a scientific boxer, dazzles the
eyes of the Oriental by the rapid use of his hands, and rains such a
shower of blows upon him that the fellow, believing him a wizard
with the six arms of a Chinese god, bellows for mercy.
The action has been swift, and the field won. Aroun Scutari reads his
defeat in the signs so apparent, and wisely steals away. His minions
sneak after him. Aleck turns to the woman who still holds the limp
figure of Dorothy. It galls him to see one arm thrown about the neck
of the treacherous woman, and Dorothy’s head resting on her
shoulder.
“I don’t know what to say to you, madam. Your duplicity, your
double-dealing, is known to me. I shall take the first opportunity to
disclose it to your victim. Meantime you must assist me in getting
her home—do you hear?”
She bows her head. This double break in her plans has taken all the
confidence out of the woman who could plot against her best friend.
She now fears the result—for if Samson Cereal is once aroused
against her she may well tremble for her fate.
“Claude, see that she comes; we will find a carriage outside,
perhaps.”
“Oh, I’ll get one for you, boys,” cheerfully declares the young
roysterer, as he endeavors to walk a straight line to the exit.
With a strange feeling thrilling him through and through Aleck bends
down and takes the young girl in his arms. She is not entirely
senseless, for though her head droops upon his shoulder, he hears a
fluttering breath and the words:
“Oh, my father!”
Reverently he raises his burden.
“Make way, friends,” he says to those in front, and the crowd parts
before him. They have by this time managed to get an inkling of the
truth through their heads, and between the dark-skinned Turk and
the frank-faced Canadian their sympathies are wholly with the latter.
Strange to say, no Columbian guard has put in an appearance during
the extraordinary fracas. They were everywhere when not wanted.
The exit is close at hand, and as they pass through Aleck sees a
figure with waving arms, a figure he has no trouble in recognizing as
their quondam partner in the late deal.
“This way! here’s your coach; step up lively now, gentlemen. We’re
off over the divide.”
His incoherent jumble is enough to attract Aleck’s attention to the
carriage, and he carefully deposits his burden inside.
“Enter,” he says to the woman beside Wycherley. She would refuse,
but his voice terrifies her, and she obeys.
“Claude, tell the driver where to go. Then get in with me,” he adds
calmly, and it is evident that even more than the strange events of
this night of nights is needed to rattle Aleck Craig.
A moment later Wycherley gets in.
“Jove! that chap insists on sitting beside the driver, and rather than
have a row I let him.”
“Who the deuce is he?”
“Give it up! Muttered something about Happy Jack, and as he’s
always singing snatches of songs or laughing. I reckon he means the
name for himself. Happy Jack—well, he’s to be envied such a
disposition in this vale of tears.”
“Hello! what’s wrong now? I thought you were about as free from
care as the next one?”
“In times gone by. As luck would have it I just saw the adorable
Inez.”
“Oh! the pretty Spanish cigar girl.”
“It is too true—perfidious Inez.”
“Come, come, remember your philosophy.”
“But she was with another—a dashing young chap with the strut of a
huzzar. I shall have to reduce him to the humble gait of a cork leg.
Her glance was freezing. I am still like a cake of ice.”
“Perhaps she saw you had company—that it was jealousy influenced
her.”
“Aleck, bless you, my dear boy. I take heart, I breathe again.”
Craig turns his attention to the woman who sits opposite, next the
actor. The vehicle is making good progress, but it will be a
wearisome journey to the North side.
“Before we reach this young lady’s home, madam, it is but fair that
you and I should have some sort of explanation. You were supposed
to be her protector; you betrayed your trust. I know all: your alliance
with Aroun Scutari, and everything that followed. You must quit her
service to-morrow, for I mean to expose you.”
“I shall do as you say, sir. There is no need of explanations on my
part. You would denounce my story as a fabrication; but I had
cause, I had cause. What do you wish me to do to-night?”
“Assist in getting the young lady under her father’s roof, from which
she should never have ventured on any such Quixotic errand.”
“You blame me for it, I know; but it was her own idea—she planned
it all, and what followed the pasha took advantage of,” she insists.
It is on the tip of his tongue to ask about the young miner, but he
suddenly shuts his teeth together and changes his mind. Aleck Craig
has a fine sense of honor.
“You have placed yourself in a position where you are liable to
criminal prosecution,” he says sternly.
The woman laughs scornfully.
“You would not dare proceed against me,” she says.
“And why?”
“Because my sweet mistress would have to testify in court, and
expose her own actions. I know them to be entirely innocent—that
her motives were actuated by the holiest feelings of the heart, but
the public would choose to believe otherwise. And to defend myself I
would have to unearth family secrets that would make the name of
Samson Cereal the talk of the town. Now, will you prosecute, sir?”
“We shall be content if you leave your place in the morning,” replies
Aleck discreetly.
 CHAPTER XII.
THE PROTECTORATE ABANDONED.
Dorothy is recovering; already she has moved, and it is evident that
the influence of the drug, whatever it may have been, is wearing
away. The jolting of the carriage may have something to do with her
coming back to her senses, for they have not yet struck the
boulevard pavement of Michigan Avenue, and the street is in bad
order.
“Oh, where am I?” she suddenly cries out.
“With friends, I trust, Miss Dorothy,” says Craig.
They pass an electric arc—she bends her eyes upon his face, and an
exclamation announces that she has recognized him.
“You? I thought it was that terrible Turk. What have you done this
for, Mr. Craig?” and he is delighted to discover a tremulous
undertone to her voice—it tells of anxiety.
“I see you fail to understand the situation, Miss Dorothy. Compose
yourself. You are now on the way home. My friend and I chanced
along just in time to put the Turk and his followers to flight, to the
amusement of the crowd. We knew no other course to pursue than
to engage a carriage and take you both home.”
“And Mrs. Merrick—was she injured?” eagerly.
“I am here, my dear, and unhurt,” purrs the companion, her manner
reminding Craig of the house cat that has sheathed her claws.
“Oh, it has been indeed fortunate! Then again we owe you a debt of
gratitude, Mr. Craig. How strange!”
“How delightful!” he echoes cheerily, desiring to arouse her to
something like her old self.
“You are very kind. What could it all mean? I am so puzzled. That
odious Turk with the eyes that make me think of a rattlesnake—what
did he mean to do with me?”
“I can only hazard a guess, Miss Dorothy. In his country they have
strange customs, you know. Wives are bought, not wooed.
Sometimes they are stolen and the settlement made later on.
Perhaps this pasha has imagined he can bring his heathen habits
over to America. He has evidently fallen in love with you, and desires
you for his wife.”
“The wretch! Why, they have a dozen or two. I have seen the inside
of a harem at Algiers,” she says indignantly.
“That is very true; but, looking at things from his standpoint, he was
probably offering you the highest compliment he understood.”
By degrees he manages to interest her in other subjects. She does
not seem to suspect that it was Mrs. Merrick who held the
handkerchief over her face, and robbed her of her senses, but
believes the Turk himself did this.
It is a strange ride. Wycherley has been introduced, and manages to
put in a word now and then, though unusually quiet for him.
Perhaps he is thinking of how near he came to occupying the
position the Canadian has taken—or it may be he speculates on the
possibilities of his great deal for the morrow.
At length they cross the State Street bridge and reach the North Side
of Chicago, but quite a stretch still intervenes, for the old speculator
has his mansion out near Lincoln Park, being one of the favored few
whom fortune allows to gaze upon the magnificent lake from his
library windows.
Dorothy has become reserved. She realizes that this gentleman, who
has several times been of such assistance to her, must look upon her
escapade of the night with curiosity at least. True, she is not
responsible for what occurred on the Ferris wheel, or near the exit of
the Midway; but somehow her participation in such scenes reflects