The Argosy, August 1914 — page 132: what you’re looking at

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

122 in spots that it seemed to reach the ceiling. As the candle flickered uncer- tainly, this mass looked now like mat- tresses and pillows, now like sacking, now like hay or straw and heaped-up branches, Then the candle seemed to go out, the footsteps receded, and a faint smell as of kerosene came through the crack. Roland scrambled to his feet and began dusting off his knees. He sat down on the edge of the iron bed. His brow contracted as if from deep thought. “Dinner!” shouted Hetheridge from down-stairs. Jumping up, the boy washed in lightning haste, ran a brush through his hair, and ran out of the room. CHAPTER VIIL CHAOS. THE dining-room was in keeping with the rest of the house. It was graced with a table, two chairs, and nothing else. The table was set for two. Hetheridge was already seated at one end of it. Beside him was a bottle of whisky. Roland took the other chair. Hetheridge helped him to cold ham from a dish in front of him and poured the boy a cup of coffee. Then he poured himself a drink of whisky and lifted the glass. “Your health,” he growled, gulping the whisky down. Roland sipped wa- ter. Then both attacked the ham. For a while there was silence in the room. Roland was thinking hard. His dis- like for Hetheridge, conceived at the moment of their meeting in the New York hotel, was now transforming it- self into active suspicion—suspicion of what he could not exactly say. The lonely, barely furnished house, the mysterious front room with the locked door, Hetheridge’s strange actions among its strange contents, the bolt just placed on the outer side of the —_ THE ARGOSY. door up-stairs—all was well calculated to foster suspicion. And while he ate his cold ham and sipped his coffee, the boy found himself concocting plans to escape from this house in the solitary woodland and from the rough man who had brought him there. How? He did not know as yet, but of one thing he felt sure. Under no circumstances must he let Hetheridge guess that he suspected that anything was amiss. He glanced furtively at the man. Hetheridge was pouring himself a second and stronger drink of whisky. Then suddenly, in obedience to a plan which he had been forming, the boy rose. “Mr. Hetheridge,” said he, “ I’m tired, and I’m going to turn in. All I wanted was just a bite. It has been a hard day for me, you know. Good night.” Hetheridge, pouring himself still another drink, looked up with a flash of something like suspicion in his eyes. Before he could do or say anything, Roland was out of the room and on the way to the stairs. Half-way up, he, turned; Hetheridge was at the dining-room door, looking after him dubiously. “Good night, Mr. Hetheridge.” “Good night.” Roland entered the little room as- signed to him. Before lighting a light he went over to the window and looked out. He smiled at what he saw—Hetheridge, outside, in front of the house, looking up at the window. “Thought I was going to jump out, did he?” muttered the boy. “Oh, no!” Then he undressed, tied his clothes tightly in a bundle, donned his paja- mas, and went down-stairs againa Hetheridge was standing just inside the front door, as if watching. At sight of the pajama-clad boy his face cleared, as if he were relieved. “TI came down to ask you what time we start for the city to-morrow, Mr. Hetheridge.” CORmMICLOOOKS (C@)