Roxy Hastings — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

ROXY HASTINGS. | 9 out to dine or lunch, and had returned to finish his un- completed day’s work. Kntering the bank with the impression that it had been robbed or was on fire, he soon learned the cause of the alarm. “I can tell you where the porter has gone,” he said to the eager crowd which closed around him, “for he knew that I was to stay late this afternoon, and asked me to wait for him until seven o’clock.” : “Where, where ?” “To his sister’s, who lives in Washington avenue, in Brooklyn. I don’t know the number, but the name is Mason, and it is near Myrtle avenue.” An uncertain address—and a distance which would re- quire a full hour and a half to traverse to and fro. But three willing messengers started, and among them Lee, who outstripped his companions, reaching the Wall street ferry just in time to gain, by a long leap, a parting boat, for which his competitors were a moment too late. Never had steamboat seemed so slow as that which bore him now, and never he thought had he known so many ves- sels to obstruct the river, requiring such deviations from the direct route of the ferry-boat. But he is across at last; he is the first man ashore, and, as on the wings of the wind, he speeds up the hill, and through Montague street, attracting all eyes, but heeding nothing, thinking of nothing, save his thrilling mission. Should he find Hart? Should he get back in time? And last and most fearful question of all, would the porter’s numbers prove to be those on which he had locked those awful portals (portals, perhaps, of the grave now), and which would guide him to an easy reversal of the ponder- ous bolts. y On a Myrtle avenue car he took his stand beside the conductor, and proclaiming the urgency of his errand, he purchased an increased rate of speed—yet fifty minutes -_ parised since he left the bank before he stood at the door of Mis. Mason’s house, furiously ringing the bell. Yes, Hart was there. What a relief to see him—the magician at whose touch that iron door was wont daily to fly open! He was in his slippers, cozily awaiting tea, and playing with his sister’s children, and not for an hour yet would he have thought of starting on his return. “The numbers! Give me the numbers!” said Lee, breath- lessly. “I have locked Miss Wilsey in the vault, and can- not get it open again.” ) com (@) IOOKS