Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's First Job; Or, At the Foot of the Ladder - Burt L. Standish - Страница 6

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Frank walked slowly through the village and along the road that led toward what had been his home. As he approached he dreaded the meeting with the professor, and he let his steps become slower and slower.

The main part of the village soon lay behind. He took off his hat and carried it in his hand, letting the evening breeze cool his brow. There was a scent of fallen apples from the orchard he was passing. A bit of silvery sheen was showing in the east, telling that the moon would soon be up. Away in the distance a watchdog was barking, but that was the only sound to disturb the perfect peace of the tranquil night.

At last, through the trees, Frank saw a gleam of light that he knew came from a window of the old mansion that had become his on the death of his uncle. He wondered if the professor was sitting there by that light waiting for him to appear.

As he turned in upon the gravel walk somebody stepped out from beneath a low tree and spoke:

“Who am dat?”

“Toots,” said Frank, “is it you?”

“Bress de Lawd!” cried the colored boy. “It am Mistah Frank him ownself! Oh, sah, I’s po’erful glad yo’ has come!”

Then he embraced Frank.

Frank knew that whatever might happen the colored boy would remain faithful and true, and he appreciated Toots’ affection.

“How are things, Toots?”

“All done gone wrong—done gone wrong!” was the answer. “I dunno w’at’s de mattah, sah, but I knows suffin’ hab happened.”

“Why were you out here under this tree?”

“Watchin’ fo’ yo’, sah. De p’ofessah sent a lettah to yo’, an’ I s’pected yo’ was comin’.”

“He did not say I was coming?”

“No, sah. He’s been powerful strange, sah.”

“Strange? How?”

“He act queer, sah; an’ now he hab tooken his bed.”

“Taken his bed? Is he ill?”

“Think so, sah; but he won’t let me sen’ fo’ a doctah. Said he’d shoot de fus’ doctah showed his haid roun’ yeah, sah, an’ he keeps de revolvah undah his pillow.”

Frank whistled.

“I should say I have not arrived any too soon,” he muttered. “Can’t tell what the professor might take a fancy to do if he is acting that way.”

“I hab been berry scat ob him, sah!”

“I don’t wonder at that. Let me into the house without arousing anybody.”

“Dar am nobody to ’rouse ’cept de p’fessah an’ de cook. Yo’ can go right in, sah. Come on, sah.”

So Toots admitted Merry to the house, having taken the grip from him. Frank decided to go directly to the room of the professor, and mounted the stairs at once. The door of the chamber occupied by the professor was standing slightly ajar, and a light was burning within.

Frank pushed open the door and entered, stepping so lightly that he was not heard by the man.

The professor was in bed. He looked pale and careworn, and there were great hollows in his cheeks. He was not asleep, but lay gazing steadily up at the ceiling, his hands, which rested on the white spread, clasping and unclasping nervously.

There was no bitterness nor resentment in Frank’s heart, only pity as he stood there looking at the unfortunate man, for he could see that his guardian had been terribly shaken by all he had passed through. The lips of the man moved at times, but he spoke no words that Frank could hear.

After a little, the professor slowly turned his head, and his eyes rested on Frank. He did not start or show surprise.

Now Merry advanced quickly, saying:

“Professor, I have come! You are ill?”

“Yes,” said the man, in a weak voice; “I see you have come, but you are too late.”

“Too late? Oh, no, professor. I came as soon as possible after receiving your letter. I am so sorry to see this misfortune has completely upset you.”

“You are making a mistake.”

“I? A mistake? How?”

“You should not call me professor.”

“Why not?”

“The professor, Horace Scotch, is a rascal. Don’t interrupt me. I have thought it all out lying here. That man is a rascal. He should be properly punished. Any man that uses in speculation money held in trust by him is a rascal. It is a criminal act. Horace Scotch must receive his just deserts.”

“My dear professor——”

The man made a weak motion with one thin hand.

“That is where you make the mistake. I am not the professor. He is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vanished.”

“No, professor——”

“He is a coward, or he would not have run away!” faintly but savagely cried the man on the bed. “I did not know he had gone till I looked in the mirror. Till that moment I was thinking myself the professor, but when I looked in the mirror I saw I was quite another man. How he did it—how he slipped away and left me in his place I cannot tell. But here I am, and he is gone. He must be overtaken! He must be captured! He must be punished! You will do it?”

“No! no! I hold no bitterness, for I am sure he did not mean to squander my fortune. Oh, professor, you need have no fear that I will seek to punish you!”

“I—fear? Ha! I see it now! Somehow he left me in his place, and I am the one who is to suffer. Ha! ha! ha! Crafty rascal. Well, I know something was holding me here—I knew there was a spell upon me, for my strength was gone. He put a spell upon me that I might not get away, did he? Ha! ha! ha! Crafty rascal!”

Frank looked into the eyes of the man. They were bright and burning, as if they reflected the fires that were consuming his soul. It was not stimulation, Frank felt certain of that. The professor’s mind was shaken—his reason was tottering on its throne.

Instantly Frank decided to humor him and try to soothe his mind.

“Let the rascal go,” he said, softly. “No one shall be punished. Perhaps it is better for me that he should lose my small fortune than that he should have doubled it. If he had succeeded in making me very rich, I might have become a worthless fellow in the world, content to live on what I possessed. Now I shall have to become a worker, and only workers are worthy to live.”

The professor clasped his fingers very tightly together and stared at the ceiling for some seconds.

“You are right about that,” he said, at last; “but that does not make him any less a criminal. Why do you suppose that pain darts through my head when I try to think? It goes through my eyes and up into the top of my head like a knife.”

“You should not think. What you need is rest—is sleep.”

“I cannot sleep. I have tried. No matter. He left me here to suffer in his place. Perhaps it is right that I should not sleep.”

“No; it is wrong. Wait. I must wash off the dust. I will return in a short time.”

Then Frank went out, found Toots and sent him in haste for the village doctor.

The doctor came and made an examination. He talked with Scotch, asking him many questions. The professor was rambling in his talk. The doctor left some medicine and called Frank from the room.

“His condition is very serious,” said the physician, sagely. “He is threatened by a complete loss of his mental faculties. He must have perfect rest, and light, nourishing food. Give him the medicine according to the directions I have written, and I will call early in the morning. Good-night.”

Then he departed.