Roxy Hastings — page 16: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ROXY HASTINGS, 7 Charles arose, and wiping the perspiration from his fore- head, exhibited a face on which agony was too plainly im- pressed to escape observation. . . ~ I—fear—I have made a terrible mistake, sir,” he said your daughter Carry came here—she went in there for a frolic—to hide from you—I locked her in—and I’ve for- gotten the numbers !” Wilsey trembled and turned pale as these words were spoken. | “Good heavens, Lee!” he said, “you must remember! She cannot live in there half an hour !” “I know it! Not long!” replied Charles, whose confusion was worse confounded by this injudicious speech, and whose brain seemed on fire, “but I used the porter’s num- bers, I think, and I will run for him.” “Do you know where to go? Does any one know where he has gone ?” No one knew. The few employees of the institution, who had not gone home for the day were by this time aligns the door of the vault ina state of great excite- ment. As nearly as could be ascertained from them the porter had gone in three or four different directions, and would return at five, at half-past five, and at six o’clock. The cashier dispatched two of the clerks in pursuit of him, and sent a third in breathless haste to the office of the manufacturers of: the vault, with a message requesting men and tools to be sent for the purpose of breaking it open. While he waited in breathless suspense the return of these messengers he still tried to stimulate the memory of the baffied teller, whose bewilderment was only increased by the lapse of the precious moments. “I am sure the first number was twenty-three—or thirty- two,” he said. “No, that was the second—the first was—I really cannot tell. It’s all gone from me.” Vainly the distracted father sought to hold some com- munication with his imprisoned child. No voice could pierce that massive wall of iron, but when he held his ear close against it he was conscious of a dull, heavy sound, as of something beating against the inner surface of the door. Doubtless the wretched girl, after exhausting her voice in fruitless screams, had groped about in the darkness until she had found some book or other hard substance, with which she was knocking to attract attention. — . Gomicboo “S (e()