HUNSTON'S PROGRESS--MISGIVINGS--THE WARNINGS FROM THE
GRAVE.
"Mr. Harkaway."
"Doctor."
"A word with you, if convenient, sir."
"Certainly, doctor," returned old Jack.
And they walked on deck together.
"It is only concerning the patient."
"What of him?"
"There is something concerning that mechanical arm which completely
baffles me. It is poisoned, I fear."
"You astonish me," said Harkaway.
While they were talking this over, young Jack dropped into the cabin.
Now, the boy knew better than anybody the history of the mechanical
arm.
It will not be forgotten by the reader that the death of Robert
Emmerson occurred on board the pirate vessel during the captivity of
young Jack Harkaway and Harry Girdwood.
Although so many adventures have been gone through since then, you can
not have forgotten that during their captivity Hunston and Toro had
striven might and main to compass the poor boy's destruction.
It is needless to recall to the reader's recollection that it was
during that time that this wondrous work was perfected by Robert
Emmerson, and that during that time his work was the indirect cause of
his death.
The legend of the steel arm was not forgotten by the boys.
* * * * *
"This arm was made by the notorious Protean Bob," said young Jack to
his father. "You remember Protean Bob?"
"Yes."
"He was a highly-skilled mechanician, it appears, and that he gave
himself thoroughly up to the manufacture of this arm."
"It is certainly a marvellous piece of work," said Doctor Anderson.
"The strangest part of the story is," said young Jack, "that only the
inventor knows the exact working of it, and that there is concealed in
the springs something deadly to avenge the inventor should the wearer
of the arm ever prove wanting in gratitude. And Hunston, as you know--"
"Never troubled anyone with gratitude."
"No, indeed," said Doctor Anderson, reflectively; "the strangest part
of that is, he never misses an opportunity of railing against you."
"Against me!" said Harkaway.
"Ungrateful ruffian!" exclaimed Harvey, who entered just as this was
spoken.
"He thinks when he gets well, you will take his life, for he is still
ignorant of the boys being here, or of their lives being saved," said
the doctor.
"I see, I see," said young Jack; "he doesn't know that we escaped the
death which he fancied so sure. He ought to suffer for that."
"Hush!" said old Jack: "he is punished enough already."
"Not quite. I don't think he could be punished enough," said Harry
Girdwood.
"Nor I."
"Stop, stop," said Harkaway, seriously; "I have suffered more than all
of you, at the hands of this man, and if I can forgive him, surely you
can."
* * * * *
Now, as Hunston gained strength, his old evil passions returned in
their full force.
The nurses appointed to attend his bedside, were the two sailors who
had rescued him from a watery grave, honest Joe Basalt and his friend
Jack Tiller.
These two bluff tars had been appointed to the post for reasons which
the reader will readily comprehend.
They had received a long lesson from old Jack and from the doctor too.
They were forbidden to mention certain matters, and although Hunston
would wheedle and cross-examine with the skill of an Old Bailey lawyer,
he quite failed to get any information from them.
"At any rate," exclaimed the patient, in utter despair, "you don't mind
telling me whither we are bound."
"Oh, yes, I do," returned Joe Basalt, who was on duty for the time
being.
"Why?"
"Can't tell."
"You don't think that Harkaway means to--"
"Mister Harkaway, if you please," interrupted Joe Basalt, surlily.
"Well then, Mr. Harkaway," said Hunston, impatiently.
"That's better."
"You don't think that he means to hand me over to the authorities at
the nearest port, do you?"
Joe was mum.
"Eh?"
Not a word.
Hunston still remained in ignorance of the presence of the boys--aye,
even of their very existence.
* * * * *
"Massa Jack," said Sunday to our youthful hero, one morning, "we often
gib poor old Daddy Mole a teasing, sir, a frightening."
Young Jack grinned.
"We have."
"Ought he not to get off easier dan dat dam skunk, dat Hunston fellar?"
"Yes, but you wouldn't recommend joking with him as we do with Mr.
Mole?"
"No. I'd let it be no joke, Massa Jack; I'd just frighten him out of
his darned skin, dat's all."
Harry Girdwood was taken into their confidence, and a fine plot was
agreed upon.
The only difficulty was the sailor nurse.
Joe Basalt was on guard again.
They gave Joe Basalt a good stiff tumbler of grog--and where is the
sailor who could resist that?--and oh, wickedness! the grog was
hocussed.
In plainer language, that means drugged.
Not very long after drinking their healths in a bumper, old Joe felt
drowsy, and he fell asleep.
The patient slept, and would not have awakened probably for two hours
had not the two negroes Sunday and Monday set up a most unearthly,
moaning noise.
The pitch was low but thrilling, and not the pleasantest thing for a
man to hear with a conscience laden with guilt as was the wretched man
Hunston's.
The sick man was for some time oblivious of the sounds which were going
on for his special ear.
But after a certain delay it began to tell.
He moaned.
Then moved.
Then turned upon his back.
"Hunston! Hunston! oh, Hunston!" Sunday groaned. "Awake."
And then the two darkeys would groan together.
A responsive moan from Hunston was heard.
He opened his eyes, moaned and groaned, and awoke wakeful at once.
And when he awoke!
His startled eyes fell upon two awful and awesome figures.
The two boys, young Jack and Harry Girdwood, standing hand in hand,
their faces bearing the ghastly pallor of the grave and their brows
smeared with blood.
In the darkened cabin a flickering, phosphorescent light played upon
them, a hint which had perhaps been borrowed from the practical joking
in the chamber of the sham necromancer in Greece.
The two victims glared upon the sick man, while he could only stare in
fearful silence.
He stared.
Then he closed his eyes and rubbed them, and opened them again, as if
to assure himself that it was real.
But they never moved.
Never spoke.
He essayed to speak.
But his tongue refused to wag.
It stuck to the roof of his mouth.
The perspiration stood out upon his brow in thick beads.
Presently, when a sound came from him, it was a dull, hollow moan of
anguish, that sounded like the echo of some "yawning grave."
A sound which seemed to contain the pent-up agony of a whole lifetime
of suffering.
But his tormentors were merciless.
They did not budge.
"Away, horrible creatures!" gasped the miserable wretch, in tones
scarcely louder than a whisper. "Away, and hide yourselves!"
And he strove to drag the coverlet over his head.
But there was a fearful fascination in it which forced him in spite of
himself to look again.
"I know you are unreal," he faltered. "I know my mind is wandering--that
I fancy it all--all. Begone! away!"
As well might he have invited them to shake him by the hand or to
embrace him affectionately.
No.
There they stuck glaring upon him with eyes full of hideous menace.
"What brings you here?" he said again. "Why do you come to torment me
now? Rest in your graves. Away, I say, away!"
His manner grew more violent as he went on speaking.
"You had no mercy upon us," said young Jack; "and now remember when
last we were upon earth."
A groan from Hunston was the only response.
"Beware!" said Harry Girdwood, in sepulchral tones. "Beware, I say!"
"Beware!" chimed in the others, as in one voice.
"I warned you that the time would come when you would beg for mercy of
my father," pursued young Jack. "I told you that you should grovel in
abject terror, and plead in vain--aye, in vain."
"Never!" retorted Hunston.
"To-morrow will show you."
"What?" cried Hunston, in feverish eagerness, while he dreaded to hear.
"Your fate."
"It is false."
"The rope is ready--the noose is run. You shall die a dog's death."
"And you shall die hard," added Harry Girdwood.
A groan, more fearful than any which had preceded, burst from the
guilty wretch.
"But Harkaway will be merciful."
"As you were."
"No, no, no; he is full of forgiveness, I know."
"But not for crimes like yours."
"He could not pardon you, even if he would."
"Why not?" demanded Hunston, quickly.
"Because the crew would drag you piecemeal. No, no, no, Hunston; your
fate is sealed. The rope is ready--the noose is waiting for you. In
torment and in suffering you shall die the death of a rabid cur, the
death of a loathsome reptile, of a poisonous thing of which it is true
humanity to rid the earth."
He could hear no more.
With a moan of incalculable terror he dived under the bedclothes to
shut out the fearful vision.
When he ventured forth again, they were gone.
Vanished!
They had returned as noiselessly as they had come.
* * * * *
"Basalt."
"Hullo!"
The drugged sailor fought with the opiate which had been administered
to him and opened his eyes.
"There's no one here, is there, Basalt? Tell me."
"What are you muttering about now?" demanded Joe Basalt, in his
surliest tones.
"Are we alone?"
"Of course."
"I have had such an awful dream, my good friend," said Hunston, still
on the shiver.
"Then keep it to yourself," retorted Joe. "I don't care the value of a
ship's biscuit for your dream--yours nor anybody else's--so stow your
gaff. Close your peepers, and let me get a few winks, if I can, always
providing as I'm not troubling your honourable self."
Not even honest old Joe's withering irony could affect the patient, so
profoundly pleased was he to find the supernatural visitors
gone--melted, as it were, into thin air.
Hunston turned on his side, muttering--
"If I had but the giant strength of Toro, I would soon take my revenge
upon all this ship contains--yes, a deep and deadly revenge."
After a moment, he again muttered--
"I wonder if the brigand Toro is alive or dead, or if I shall ever have
his help to destroy my old and hated enemy Harkaway."