BOB MAKES A NEW MOVE
Bob was alarmed when the crazy man strode forward, tripod in hand, as
if to brain him should he attempt to leave the studio.
He had not had much to do with people of unsound mind, but he was well
aware that his present position was both a delicate and a dangerous one.
If the lunatic attacked him, he would have a hard struggle to keep
himself from harm, for, despite his hollow eyes and shrunken form, the
man looked strong.
“I’m not going to leave,” said Bob. “Put down the tripod, and sit in
the chair if you want the picture of your skeleton taken.”
He left the vicinity of the door, and seeing this the crazy man at once
dropped the folded tripod and sank into a chair.
“Will you take the picture?” he demanded.
“I will if you will promise to go away right afterward,” returned the
youth.
“That goes. Take me this way, and be quick. I must catch the next ocean
steamer for the Sandwich Islands.”
The man sprawled out on the chair, put one hand to his chin and the
other to his breast and put on a sober, earnest look.
Bob at once placed a prepared tin plate in the camera, put on the
proper lens, and in a few minutes had a tintype of the crazy man.
“There you are,” he said, as he trimmed it up. “Now you will have to
hurry to catch that steamer.”
The lunatic glared at the picture for a second. Then he burst out into
a wild fit of laughter.
“Is that me? Really, where is the skeleton? Oh, this is a fraud! Take a
thousand more, and be sure and add the skeleton, if you want your pay.”
Bob’s heart sank within him. He had made a great effort to get rid of
the lunatic, and failed. What was to be done now?
He decided to use strong measures. Picking up the folded tripod, he
advanced toward the lunatic.
“Get out of here at once,” he said, sternly. “I am too busy to be
fooled with. Go!”
The crazy man’s face fell, and with a slow step he moved toward the
door.
“Excuse me,” he said, softly. “I didn’t know you were busy. I’ll come
in some time to-morrow.”
He made a profound bow, and started as if to go.
“Thank fortune I am rid of him!” thought Bob.
But the youth was mistaken. Reaching the door, the lunatic suddenly
turned, and, before Bob was aware, sprang straight for the youth’s
throat.
The attack was so unexpected that Bob was borne over backward, the
crazy man landing on his breast.
“Let up!” gasped Bob, desperately.
The crazy man did not reply, but tightened his grip on Bob’s throat, so
that he was nearly choked to death.
In vain Bob struggled. He could not loosen that nervous hold the
lunatic had taken, and now his head began to swim, and strange lights
began to flicker before his eyes.
He tried to kick, but could not reach his opponent. Half a minute more
passed, and poor Bob was on the point of giving himself up as lost.
Then the door of the studio opened, and Mr. Starleigh hurried in,
followed by Mr. Martin.
“Hullo! what’s this?” cried the old photographer, surveying the strange
scene in astonishment.
“It’s Crazy Sam Bartlett,” ejaculated Mr. Martin.
“He is choking the boy to death,” went on Mr. Starleigh. “Here, let him
be!”
He caught the lunatic by the shoulder, and hauled him backward.
The man set up a howl, and ceased tormenting Bob. He gave one look at
Mr. Martin and his face fell.
“Sam, what does this mean?” demanded the photographer.
“Haven’t time to explain,” returned Bartlett, hurriedly.
“When did they let you out?”
“I ran away--they think I am crazy--but I’m the President of the
Sandwich Islands. Here we go!”
Bartlett made a dash for the door. Mr. Martin tried to stop him, but he
was too late.
A second later they heard a crash. Bartlett had leaped down the entire
flight of stairs. All three went after him, and found him lying at the
bottom, his left leg broken.
The police were at once summoned, and a close coach was procured, in
which he was taken to the lunatic asylum from which he had escaped.
Then Mr. Starleigh had Bob tell his story. Both the old photographer
and Mr. Martin listened with great interest.
“And I never want another such experience as long as I live,” concluded
Bob.
“I shouldn’t think you would,” said Mr. Starleigh. “Cranks are bad
enough, but a real crazy man is ten times worse. It is lucky we came
in when we did.”
Bob went to work again, but his nerves were all unstrung, and before
long the old photographer told him he might as well stop for the day,
as there was no need for further hurry.
When Bob reached his boarding-house, he found a long letter from Frank
Landes awaiting him. In the epistle Frank said he intended to take a
trip to Stampton before long, and then go on a business tour along the
T. W. & L. Railroad.
“I would like to go with him,” thought Bob. “Maybe I’ll see Frank, if
Mr. Maverick offers me a place on the road.”
That evening found Bob again at the railroad president’s mansion,
according to agreement. Grace was present, and a long talk occurred.
“I want to do something for you, Bob,” said Mr. Maverick. “I think I
owe it to you, after what you did for Grace. But I will not offer you
money for that service, for such acts are not to be paid for in cash.”
Mr. Maverick paused. Bob bowed, but did not reply. He was wondering
what was coming.
“You said you loved the art of photography, and would like nothing
better than a chance to travel about taking pictures. To help you along
in this direction, I have purchased for you a complete travelling
outfit, including a horse and a wagon----”
“Mr. Maverick!” burst out the youth. “Do you really mean that?”
“Yes, Bob,” smiled the railroad president. “Come with me!”
Grace jumped up, and led the way out of the house and down to the barn.
There stood a fine horse and a regular photographer’s turn-out. The
lantern was lit inside of the wagon, and Bob saw it contained several
cameras, some lenses, a great number of plates, besides a cabinet of
chemicals and other things needed for taking pictures.
“This is Grace’s gift to you,” said Mr. Maverick. “How does it strike
you?”
“It--it strikes me all of a heap,” gasped Bob. “Do you really mean to
say this whole outfit is for me?”
“Certainly,” said Grace. “And I hope you will make money out of it.”
“But--but it’s too much!” went on the youth, who could as yet hardly
realize his good fortune.
“No, it isn’t,” returned the girl, warmly. “You deserve every bit of
it.”
“There is a money drawer under the seat,” went on Mr. Maverick. “In it
you will find some cash, which you will need.”
Bob shook his head. There was too much of a lump in his throat to say
anything. Good fortune seemed to have come all in a heap.
“Does it suit you?” asked Grace, watching him curiously.
“It more than suits,” burst out Bob. “Why I--I can’t thank you enough.
You have made me the happiest chap in Stampton.”
“I have not finished yet,” said Mr. Maverick. “Now you have the outfit,
I believe you are almost capable of doing the work I wish done.”
“I will do whatever I can for you,” returned Bob, quickly. “And I won’t
charge you a cent.”
“In that case you can’t do anything. But this work is for the railroad.”
“And what is it?”
“We intend before long to get up a new guide book of the route, and
our superintendent thinks we ought to get out a fine illustrated work
similar to those put out by some of the larger roads. For that purpose
we will have to send out a man to take at least thirty or forty of the
finest views obtainable for photo-engravings. I have spoken to Mr.
Starleigh--met him just before I returned home--and he thinks with a
little coaching you could do this work very well.”
“I would do my best,” returned Bob, with sparkling eyes.
“I advise that you remain with Mr. Starleigh for several weeks yet, and
then we will start you out. You may take your own time in getting over
the ground, and whenever you need money you can send to the paymaster
for it. When you have finished, the bill will be promptly paid, and I
trust by that time you will have other work, sufficient to keep you
going. Do you accept?”
Bob did, without hesitation.