"I think you are tongue-tied," said Scully finally to his son, the
cowboy, and the Easterner; and at the end of this scornful sentence he
left the room.
Up-stairs the Swede was swiftly fastening the straps of his great
valise. Once his back happened to be half turned towards the door,
and, hearing a noise there, he wheeled and sprang up, uttering a loud
cry. Scully's wrinkled visage showed grimly in the light of the small
lamp he carried. This yellow effulgence, streaming upward, colored
only his prominent features, and left his eyes, for instance, in
mysterious shadow. He resembled a murderer.
"Man! man!" he exclaimed, "have you gone daffy?"
"Oh, no! Oh, no!" rejoined the other. "There are people in this world
who know pretty nearly as much as you do--understand?"
For a moment they stood gazing at each other. Upon the Swede's deathly
pale checks were two spots brightly crimson and sharply edged, as if
they had been carefully painted. Scully placed the light on the table
and sat himself on the edge of the bed. He spoke ruminatively. "By
cracky, I never heard of such a thing in my life. It's a complete
muddle. I can't, for the soul of me, think how you ever got this idea
into your head." Presently he lifted his eyes and asked: "And did you
sure think they were going to kill you?"
The Swede scanned the old man as if he wished to see into his mind. "I
did," he said at last. He obviously suspected that this answer might
precipitate an outbreak. As he pulled on a strap his whole arm shook,
the elbow wavering like a bit of paper.
Scully banged his hand impressively on the foot-board of the bed.
"Why, man, we're goin' to have a line of ilictric street-cars in this
town next spring."
"'A line of electric street-cars,'" repeated the Swede, stupidly.
"And," said Scully, "there's a new railroad goin' to be built down
from Broken Arm to here. Not to mintion the four churches and the
smashin' big brick school-house. Then there's the big factory, too.
Why, in two years Romper 'll be a _metropolis_."
Having finished the preparation of his baggage, the Swede straightened
himself. "Mr. Scully," he said, with sudden hardihood, "how much do I
owe you?"
"You don't owe me anythin'," said the old man, angrily.
"Yes, I do," retorted the Swede. He took seventy-five cents from his
pocket and tendered it to Scully; but the latter snapped his fingers
in disdainful refusal. However, it happened that they both stood
gazing in a strange fashion at three silver pieces on the Swede's open
palm.
"I'll not take your money," said Scully at last. "Not after what's
been goin' on here." Then a plan seemed to strike him. "Here," he
cried, picking up his lamp and moving towards the door. "Here! Come
with me a minute."
"No," said the Swede, in overwhelming alarm.
"Yes," urged the old man. "Come on! I want you to come and see a
picter--just across the hall--in my room."
The Swede must have concluded that his hour was come. His jaw dropped
and his teeth showed like a dead man's. He ultimately followed Scully
across the corridor, but he had the step of one hung in chains.
Scully flashed the light high on the wall of his own chamber. There
was revealed a ridiculous photograph of a little girl. She was leaning
against a balustrade of gorgeous decoration, and the formidable bang
to her hair was prominent. The figure was as graceful as an upright
sled-stake, and, withal, it was of the hue of lead. "There," said
Scully, tenderly, "that's the picter of my little girl that died. Her
name was Carrie. She had the purtiest hair you ever saw! I was that
fond of her, she--"
Turning then, he saw that the Swede was not contemplating the picture
at all, but, instead, was keeping keen watch on the gloom in the rear.
"Look, man!" cried Scully, heartily. "That's the picter of my little
gal that died. Her name was Carrie. And then here's the picter of my
oldest boy, Michael. He's a lawyer in Lincoln, an' doin' well. I gave
that boy a grand eddycation, and I'm glad for it now. He's a fine boy.
Look at 'im now. Ain't he bold as blazes, him there in Lincoln, an
honored an' respicted gintleman. An honored an' respicted gintleman,"
concluded Scully with a flourish. And, so saying, he smote the Swede
jovially on the back.
The Swede faintly smiled.
"Now," said the old man, "there's only one more thing." He dropped
suddenly to the floor and thrust his head beneath the bed. The Swede
could hear his muffled voice. "I'd keep it under me piller if it
wasn't for that boy Johnnie. Then there's the old woman--Where is it
now? I never put it twice in the same place. Ah, now come out with
you!"
Presently he backed clumsily from under the bed, dragging with him an
old coat rolled into a bundle. "I've fetched him," he muttered.
Kneeling on the floor, he unrolled the coat and extracted from its
heart a large yellow-brown whiskey bottle.
His first maneuver was to hold the bottle up to the light. Reassured,
apparently, that nobody had been tampering with it, he thrust it with
a generous movement towards the Swede.
The weak-kneed Swede was about to eagerly clutch this element of
strength, but he suddenly jerked his hand away and cast a look of
horror upon Scully.
"Drink," said the old man affectionately. He had risen to his feet,
and now stood facing the Swede.