The Colossus. Opie Percival Read

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      DeGolyer threw down his pen. "No, I would have him live forever in his thoughtless and beautiful paradise; I would not pull him down to the thoughtful man's hell of self-communion."

      "Look here, young man, you must have a history."

      "No, simply an ill-written essay."

      "Who was your father?"

      "A fool."

      "Ah, I grant you. And who was your mother?"

      "An angel."

      "No, sir, she—I beg your pardon," the old man quickly added. "You are sensitive, sir."

      DeGolyer, sadly smiling, replied: "He who suffered in childhood, and who in after life has walked hand in hand with disappointment, and is then not sensitive, is a brute."

      "How well do I know the truth of that! DeGolyer, I have been acquainted with you but a short time, but you appeal to me strongly, sir. And I could almost tell you something, but it is something that I ought to keep to myself. I could make you despise me and then offer me your regard as a compromise. Oh, that American republic of ours, fought for by men who scorned the romance of kingly courts, is not so commonplace a country after all. Many strange things happen there, and some of them are desperately foul. Is that Henry coming? Hush."

      The young man bounded into the room. "Say," he cried, "I've bargained for six of the biggest monkeys you ever saw. That old fellow "—

      "Henry," the uncle interrupted, taking up a hat and fanning his purplish face, "you are getting too old for that sort of foolishness. You are a man, you must remember, and it may not be long until you'll be called upon to exercise the judgment of a man."

      "Oh, I was going to buy the monkeys and sell them again for three times as much as I gave for them, but you bet that when I'm called on to exercise the judgment, of a man I'll be there. And do you think that I'd fool with mines or anything else in this country? I wouldn't. I'd go to some American city and make money. Say, DeGolyer, when are you going to start off on that jaunt?"

      "What jaunt?" the old man asked.

      "I am going to make a tour of the country," DeGolyer answered. "I'm going to visit nearly every community of interest and gather material for my letters, and shall be gone a month or so, I should think."

      "And I'm going with him," said Henry.

      "No," the old man replied, "you are not going to leave me here all that time alone. I'm old, and I want you near me."

      "All right, uncle; whatever you say goes."

      When DeGolyer mounted a mule and set out on his journey, young Sawyer, as if clinging to his friendship, walked beside him for some distance into the country.

      "Well, I'd better turn back here," said the young man, halting. "Say, Hank, don't stay away any longer than you can help. It's devilish lonesome here, you know."

      "I won't, my boy."

      "All right. And say, if you can't do the thing up as well as you want to, throw up the job and come back here, for I'll turn loose, the first thing you know, and make enough money for both of us."

      "God bless you, I hope that you may always make enough for yourself."

      "And you bet I will, and for you, too. I hate like the mischief to see you go away. Couldn't think any more of you if we were twin brothers. And you think a good deal of me, too, don't you, Hank?"

      "My boy," said DeGolyer, leaning over and placing his hand on the young fellow's shoulder, "I have never speculated with my friendship, and I don't know how valuable it is, but all of it that is worth having is yours. You make friends everywhere; I don't. You have nothing to conceal, and I have nothing to make known. To tell you the truth, you are the only real friend I ever had."

      "Look out, now. That sort of talk knocks me; but say, don't be away any longer than you can help."

      "I won't!" He rode a short distance, turned in his saddle, waved his hand and cried: "God bless you, my boy."

CHAPTER III.

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ALL WAS DARKNESS.

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      Delays and difficulties of traveling, together with his own determination to do the work thoroughly, prolonged DeGolyer's absence. Nearly three months had passed. Evening was come, and from a distant hill-top the returning traveler saw the steeple of Ulmata's church—a black mark on the fading blush of lingering twilight. A chilly darkness crept out of the valley. Hungry dogs barked in the dreary village. DeGolyer could see but a single light. It burned in the priest's house—a dark age, and as of yore, with all the light held by the church. The weary man liberated his mule on a common, where its former companions were grazing, and sought the house of his friends. The house was dark and the doors were fastened. He knocked, and a startling echo, an audible darkness, came from the valley. He knocked again, and a voice cried from the street:

      "Who's that?"

      "Helloa, is that you, my boy?"

      There was no answer, but a figure rushed through the darkness, seized DeGolyer, and in a hoarse whisper said:

      "Come where there's a light."

      "Why, what's the matter, Henry?"

      "Come where there's a light."

      DeGolyer followed him to a wretched place that bore the name of a public-house, and went with him into a room. A lamp sputtered on a shelf. Young Sawyer caught DeGolyer's hands.

      "I have waited so long for you to come back to this dreadful place. I am all alone. Uncle is dead."

      DeGolyer sat down without saying a word. He sat in silence, and then he asked:

      "When did he die?"

      "About two weeks after you left."

      "Did he kill himself?"

      "Good God, no! Why did you think that?"

      "Oh, I didn't really think it—don't know why I said it."

      "He was sick only a few days, and the strangest thing has come to light! He seemed to know before he was taken sick that he was going to die, and he spent nearly a whole day in writing—writing something for me—and the strangest thing has come to light. I can hardly realize it. Here it is; read it. Don't say a word till you have read every line of it. Strangest thing I ever heard of."

      And this is what DeGolyer read by the light of the sputtering lamp:

      "Years ago there lived in Salem, Mass., two brothers, George and Andrew Witherspoon. Their parents had passed away when the boys were quite young, but the youngsters had СКАЧАТЬ