Argosy, Vol. 1 (1882) — page 215: what you’re looking at

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

206 inan's throat, and his muscles, still tense from excited resistance, suddenly yielded and became powerless. . “She sent me to Africa to find you,” added Bradshaw, gently, and he re- laxed his hold. The old man came near to falling and might have done so had not the younger caught and sustained him. “Trene!”’ the harsh voice spoke in a uttering whisper. “ Oh, my daugh- ter!” and the old man shook now with sobbing. There were tears in Bradshaw’s eyes. Murdock’s denial of his identity, his frantic resistance to friendly appeal, were matters of profound mystery to the young traveler; but there was con- tagion in the overwhelming emotion evoked by the mention of Irene; and Bradshaw’s own feelings were deeply stirred by this sudden coming upon the object of his long search. “Come up to the camp, Mr. Mur- dock,” he said, persuasively; “ there is much that we will want to talk about, and if there is danger from below we shall be safer up there than here.”’ Murdock controlled himself with evident effort and looked up the ra- vine. He saw Pan standing a few rods from them with a rifle in each hand. The faithful black man had drawn near when the struggle began in order to be of assistance to his employer 1 there should be need. “Who is that?” asked Murdock, suspiciously. “One of my men,” Bradshaw an- swered ; “a loyal fellow and unusually intelligent for a native.” “ Does he speak English? ” “ Fluently.” | “Then I’ll stay -here and listen to what you have to say. I won’t risk being overheard. Send him back to your camp.” | “As you will, Mr. Murdock,” and Bradshaw beckoned to Pan. The black man came up slowly, look- © ing at Murdock instead of his em- ployer. THE ARGOSY. “ You may go back to the camp, Pan,” said Bradshaw, “and tell the men that no one of them is to come this way before I return.” Without a word Pan turned about — and went slowly up the ravine. His last glance was at Murdock. It was not until he had disappeared from view that Bradshaw discovered his rifle leaning against a rock beside him. “You say my daughter sent you,” said Murdock, in controlled, almost sullen tones, “ and you have made me betray myself. It will be well for you if it does not prove a trick. Who arc you?” “Tt is no wonder you do not know me,” Bradshaw answered, “ for after all these years it was only with diffi- culty that I recognized you. I do not think I should have done so if I had not been on the lookout for you so long.” ‘““ My appearance ” Murdock be- gan, and then checked himself abrupt- ly. “ You have not answered me.” “Tam Elmer Bradshaw, Mr. Mur- dock. Surely you remember me.” “I knew your father, I think.” “ And have I faded from your recol- lection? ” “No. You used to play with Irene, didn’t you?” “In old Vermont. dock.” “I should not have known you. You were a child then.” ‘And I was at college when you left the country.” “I should probably never have thought of you again if you hadn't found me,” Murdock went on as if he had not heard Bradshaw; and there was a note of resentful harshness in his voice. “IT can quite understand that you would have no interest in me as a boy,” said Bradshaw, “but I Rave not for- gotten you, and your many friends speak often of you.” ‘What do they say?” asked Mur- Yes, Mr. Mur- CO dock, with a trace of CABPINESS. a