_By_ M. HUMPHREYS
September 17, 1922.—I sat down to breakfast this morning with a good
appetite. The heat seemed over, and a cool wind blew in from my garden,
where chrysanthemums were already budding. The sunshine streamed into
the room and fell pleasantly on Mrs. O’Brien’s broad face as she brought
in the eggs and coffee. For a supposedly lonely old bachelor the world
seemed to me a pretty good place. I was buttering my third set of waffles
when the housekeeper again appeared, this time with the mail.
I glanced carelessly at the three or four letters beside my plate. One of
them bore a strangely familiar handwriting. I gazed at it a minute, then
seized it with a beating heart. Tears almost came into my eyes. There was
no doubt about it—it was Arthur Barker’s handwriting! Shaky and changed,
to be sure, but ten years have passed since I have seen Arthur, or,
rather, since his mysterious disappearance.
For ten years I have not had a word from him. His people know no more
than I what has become of him, and long ago we gave him up for dead. He
vanished without leaving a trace behind him. It seemed to me, too, that
with him vanished the last shreds of my youth. For Arthur was my dearest
friend in that happy time. We were boon companions, and many a mad prank
we played together.
And now, after ten years of silence, Arthur was writing to me!
The envelope was postmarked Baltimore. Almost reluctantly—for I feared
what it might contain—I passed my finger under the flap and opened it. It
held a single sheet of paper torn from a pad. But it was Arthur’s writing:
“_Dear Tom: Old man, can you run down to see me for a few days?
I’m afraid I’m in a bad way. ARTHUR._”
Scrawled across the bottom was the address, _536 N. Marathon street_.