Argosy, Vol. 1 (1882) — page 89: what you’re looking at

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

80 THE ARGOSY. ‘“He’s come, brother,” she added, and motioned for Frank to go forward and take a chair drawn up to the table opposite that occupied by a man in a black and white blazer, with a shade above his eyes and a crutch by his side. oy “ Well, well,” he exclaimed, stretch- ing out his hands to Frank, ‘I’m aw- fully glad to see you, my dear boy.” Frank was so amazed to find that the professor spoke without the trace of a foreign accent that he forgot to be surprised by the cordial greeting. Mechanically he sank back into the chair behind him til he could gather his thoughts. “I suppose you want to hear my story,” began the man in the blazer. “TI declare, I feel as if I had been back for weeks instead of only half a day, and the joke of it is nobody knows I’m home but yourself. As long as I couldn’t have my old chum to welcome me back, I said to myself, ‘ John War- ing, my boy, send for the son. That will be the next best thing!” And here you are. I wasn’t at all sure that you were in the city, but I had the address, and determined to risk it. And to think that not even the newspapers know I’ve got back. I traveled incog, you see.” The speaker paused to light a cigar and Frank drew in a long breath. John Waring! Why, that was the author of a novel that had an immense sale the year before. But after the work had been on the market six months, Waring had mysteriously dis- appeared. All efforts to trace him were futile, but it was generally supposed that he had shut himself up somewhere to write a second book. And now Frank sat opposite him, on the verge of hearing from his own lips the. story of what had befallen him during his months of seclusion from the knowledge of men. The young re- porter’s brain fairly swam as he thought of the “beat” he could give the Universe. But was he not obtaining it under false pretenses? Mr. John Waring evi- dently took him for somebody else, who might appear at any moment. This would be very awkward. “Mr. Waring,” Frank began, “there’s a mistake somewhere. I am a reporter from the Untverse, and——” “Ha, ha, ha,’’ broke in the other, leaning forward to slap Frank on the knee, “that’s a good one. Run right into the trap, didn’t I? Well, no mat- ter; you can make your story out of it all the same. I couldn’t keep it dark beyond tomorrow, any way. Well, then, I’ve been to the tip end of South America. My new novel deals with hie there, and I think, if I do say it myself, it's going to make a stir. I’ve had plenty of personal adventures to fur- nish incidents for the story. This,” and he touched the crutch by his side, “ was made necessary by a scrap with the natives.” Thereupon he launched forth on a narrative so thrilling that Frank forgot the explanation he had meant to make, and listened with all his ears. “ As for my book,” the author added in conclusion, “ that is almost finished. I may write the last words tomorrow— Christmas Day. You see, I am at work on it now.” Frank rose. There was Professor Foufou to be seen yet. But he felt he could not leave Mr. Waring under a misapprehension. “Going so soon?” exclaimed the latter. ‘“ Well, I suppose you want to get down to the office with your story in good season. With what paper did you say you were connected, Bob? ” “With the Untverse; but my name isn’t Bob. I tried to tell you before that there was some mistake.” “You’re not Bob Reckford!” ex- claimed the other. “ The son of my old chum, the missionary, whose boy was sent home after I went away from New York?” “No; I’m Frank Winter. GFIAKS eco