“Don’t strike! For God’s sake, don’t strike!” I cried, seizing his arm.
Someone hit me on the back of the head, and strong arms dragged me back.
My senses reeled, as I saw first one heavy sledge descend, then another.
The stake crashed through the coffin and deep into the ground beneath,
driven by the relentless blows.
Suddenly, apparently from the bottom of the grave, came a muffled,
wailing cry, increasing to a horrible, blood-curdling shriek.
The mob stood for a moment as if paralyzed, then, to a man, fled
precipitately, stopping for neither weapons nor tools. I found temporary
relief in unconsciousness....
My senses returned to me gradually. I was walking, or, rather, reeling,
as one intoxicated, between Miss Randall and her father, who were helping
me toward the house. The professor was carrying a lantern which one of
the men had dropped, and fantastic, swaying, bobbing shadows stretched
wherever its rays penetrated.
After what seemed an age of painful travel we reached the house, and Miss
Randall helped me into the front room, the professor following. Sam and
Joe Severs were there, and someone reclined in the large morris chair
facing the fire. Mrs. Rhodes came bustling in with a steaming tea wagon.
I moved toward the fire, for I was chilled through. As I did so, I
glanced toward the occupant of the morris chair, then gave a startled
cry.
_The man in the chair was Uncle Jim!_
“Hello, Billy,” he said. “How are you, my boy?”
For a moment I was speechless. “Uncle Jim!” I managed to stammer. “Is it
really you, or am I dreaming again?”
Ruth squeezed my arm reassuringly. “Don’t be afraid. It is really your
uncle.”
I knelt by the chair and felt Uncle Jim’s arm about my shoulders. “Yes,
it is really I, Billy. A bit weak and shaken, perhaps, but I’ll soon be
as sound as a new dollar.”
“But how—when—how did you get out of that horrible grave?”
“First, I will ask Miss Ruth if she will be so kind as to preside over
the tea wagon. Then I believe my friend Randall can recount the events of
the evening much more clearly and satisfactorily than I.”
“Being, perhaps, more familiar with the evening’s deep-laid plot than
some of those present, I accept the nomination,” replied the professor,
smiling, “although, in doing so, I do not want to detract one iota from
the honor due my fellow plotters for their most efficient assistance,
without which my plan would have been a complete failure.”
Tea was served, cigars were lighted, and the professor began:
“In the first place, I am sure you will all be interested in knowing the
cause of the epidemic on account of which some of our neighbors have
reverted to the superstition of the dark ages. It is explained by an
article in _The Peoria Times_, which I brought with me this afternoon,
but did not have time to read until a moment ago, which states that the
countryside is being swept by a new and strange malady known as ‘sleeping
sickness,’ and that physicians have not, as yet, found any efficient
means of combating the disease.
“Now for this evening’s little drama. You will, no doubt, recall, Mr.
Ansley, that before we joined the funeral procession, I requested a
moment’s conversation with my daughter. The events which followed were
the result of that conversation.
“In order that the plan might be carried out, it was necessary for her
first to gain the help of Joe and Sam here, and then make a quick detour
around the procession. I know that there are few men who will not rush
to the rescue of a woman in distress, and I asked her to call for help
in order to divert the mob from the grave. She thought of the bat idea
herself, and I must say it worked most excellently.
“While everyone was gone, Joe and Sam, who had stationed themselves
nearby, came and helped me remove your uncle from the casket. As we did
so, I noticed signs of returning consciousness, brought about in some
measure, no doubt, by the rude jolting of the casket. Then the boys
carried him to the house, while I replaced the lid. You are all familiar
with what followed.”
“But that unearthly shriek from the grave,” I said. “It sounded like the
cry of a dying man.”
“Ventriloquism,” said the professor, “nothing more. A simple little trick
I learned in my high school days. It was I who shrieked.”
* * * * *
Uncle Jim and I convalesced together.
When my ribs were knitted and his strength was restored, it was decided
that he should go to Florida for the winter, and that I should have
charge of the farm. He said that my education and training should make me
a far more capable manager than he, and that the position should be mine
as long as I desired it.
He delayed his trip, however, until a certain girl, who had made me a
certain promise, exchanged the name of Randall for that of Ansley. Then
he left us to our happiness.