The Colossus Part 39

"I will, but first let me tell you that I have come for this man. I know his father. I'll get back as soon as I can."

"All right. And if you can do anything for this poor fellow you are welcome to, for he's not much use round here."

DeGolyer s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat and rushed out into the street. Not a hack was in sight; he could not wait for a car, and he hastened toward the river. He began to run, and a boy cried: "Sick him, Tige." He stopped suddenly and put his hand to his head. "Have I lost my mind?" he asked himself.

"Well, here we are again," some one said. DeGolyer looked round and recognized the railroad man who had charge of the excursion.

"I'm glad I met you," DeGolyer replied. "It saves hunting you up."

"Why, what's the matter? Are you sick?"

"No, I'm all right, but something has occurred that compels me to return at once to Chicago."

"Nothing serious, I hope."

"No, but it demands my immediate return. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped. Good-by."

Again he started toward the river. He upset an old woman's basket of fruit. She cried out at him, and be saw that she could scarcely totter after the rolling oranges. He halted and picked them up for her. She mumbled something; she appeared to be a hundred years old. As he was putting the fruit into the basket, she struck a note in her mumbling that caused him to look her full in the face. He dropped the oranges and sprang back. She was the hag that had taken him from the Foundlings' Home. He hurried onward. "Great G.o.d!" he inwardly cried, "I am covered with the slime of the past."

Without difficulty he found the captain of the Creole. "I don't know very much about the poor fellow," he said. "I run across him nearly six months ago fit a little place called Dura, on the coast of Costa Rica. He was working about a sort of hotel, scrubbing and taking care of the horses; and I guess I shouldn't have paid any attention to him if I hadn't heard somebody say that he was an American; and it struck me as rather out of place that an American should be scrubbing round for those fellows, and I began to inquire about him. The landlord said that he was brought there sick, a good while ago, and was left for dead, but just as they were about to bury him he came to, and got up again after a few weeks. A priest told me that his name was Henry DeGolyer, and I said that it didn't make any difference what his name might be, I was going to take him back to the United States, so that if he had to clean out stables and scrub he might do it for white folks at least; for I am a down-east Yankee, and I haven't any too much respect for those fellows. Well, I brought him to New Orleans. I couldn't do much for him, being a poor man myself, but I got him a place in a restaurant, where he could get enough to eat, anyhow. I've since heard that he used to be a newspaper man, but this was disputed.

Some people said that the newspaper DeGolyer was a black-haired fellow. But that didn't make any difference--I did the best I could."

"And you shall he more than paid for your trouble," said DeGolyer.

"Well, we won't argue about that. If you've got any money to spare you'd better give it to him."

"What is your name?"

"Atkins--just Cap'n Atkins."

"Where do you get your mail?"

"Well, I don't get any to speak of. A letter sent in care of the wharfmaster will reach me all right."

DeGolyer got into a hack and was rapidly driven to the restaurant.

Young Witherspoon had completed his work and was in the kitchen, sitting on a box with a dirty-looking bundle lying beside him.

"Come, Henry," DeGolyer said, taking his arm.

"No; not Henry--Hank. Henry's dead."

"Come, my boy."

Witherspoon looked up, and closing his eyes, pressed the tips of his fingers against them.

"My boy."

"He got up and turned to go with DeGolyer, who held his arm, but perceiving that he had left his bundle, pulled back and made an effort to reach it.

"No, we don't want that," said DeGolyer.

"Yes, clothes."

"No, we'll get better clothes. Come on."

DeGolyer took him to a Turkish bath, to a barbershop, and then to a clothing store. It was now evening and nearly time to take the train for Chicago. They drove to the hotel and then to the railway station.

The homeward journey was begun, and the wheels kept on repeating: "A father and a mother and a sister, too." DeGolyer did not permit himself to think. His mind had a thousand quickenings, but he killed them. Young Witherspoon looked in awe at the luxury of the sleeping-car; he gazed at the floor as if he wondered how it could be scrubbed. At first he refused to sit on the showy plush, and even after DeGolyer's soothing and affectionate words had relieved his fear of giving offense, he jumped to his feet when the porter came through the car, and in a trembling fright begged his companion to protect him against the anger of the head waiter.

"Sit down, my dear boy. He is not a head waiter--he is your servant."

"Is he?"

"Yes, and must wait on you."

At this he doubtfully shook his head, and he continued to watch the porter until a.s.sured that he was not offended, and then timidly offered to shake hands with him.

When bed-time came young Witherspoon refused to take off his clothes.

He was afraid that some one might steal them, and no argument served to rea.s.sure him; and even after he had lain down, with his clothes on, he took off a red neck-tie which he had insisted upon wearing, and for greater security put it into his pocket. DeGolyer lay beside him, and for a time Witherspoon was quiet, but suddenly he rose up and began to mutter.

"What's the matter, Henry?"

"Not Henry--Hank. Henry's dead."

"Well, what's the matter, Hank?"

"Want my hat."

"It's up there. We'll get it in the morning."

"Want it now."

DeGolyer got his hat for him, and he lay with it on his breast. How dragging a night it was! Would the train never run from under the darkness out into the light of day? And sometimes, when the train stopped, DeGolyer fancied that it had run ahead of night and perversely was waiting for the darkness to catch up. The end was coming, and what an end it might be!

The day was dark and rainy; the landscape was a flat dreariness. A buzzard flapped his heavy wings and flew from a dead tree; a yelping dog ran after the train; a horse, turned out to die, stumbled along a stumpy road.

It was evening when the train reached Chicago. DeGolyer and young Witherspoon took a cab and were driven to a hospital. The case was explained to the physician in charge. He said that the mental trouble might not be due to any permanent derangement of the brain; it was evident that he had not been treated properly. The patient's nervous system was badly shattered. The case was by no means hopeless. He could not determine the length of time it might require to restore him to physical health, which meant, he thought, a mental cure as well.

"Three months?" DeGolyer asked.

"That long, at least."

"I will leave him with you, and I urge you not to stop short of the highest medical skill that can be procured in either this country or in Europe. As to who this young man is or may turn out to be, that must be kept as a secret. I will call every day. Henry"--

"Hank."

"All right, Hank. Now, I'm going to leave you here, but I'll be back soon."