The Argosy — page 364: what you’re looking at

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

In the Dead of Night. 343 ‘be dark with a darkness that would be unrelieved by either moon or stars. If it kept on snowing all night at this rate the drift would be a ‘couple of feet deep by morning. Skeggs’s casual remark about the pedlar and his wife, unheeded at the time, now flashed vividly across Kester’s mind. “You will have to wait here till I can get assistance,” he said, in answer to his companion’s question. ‘“ There is no help for it.” “T suppose not,” growled Skeggs. ‘‘ Was ever anything so cursedly unfortunate P ” ‘‘Sedgeley is the nearest place to this,” said Kester. ‘There are plenty of men there who know the moor thoroughly. I will send half a dozen of them to your help.” ‘‘ How soon may I expect them here ?”’ “In about three quarters of an hour from now.” “Ugh! I’m half frozen now. What shall I be in another hour ?” “Oh, you'll pull through that easily enough. Your bottle is not empty yet.” “Jove! I’d forgotten the bottle,” said Skeggs, with animation. He took it out of his pocket and held it up to the light. ‘*‘ Not more than a quartern left. Well, that’s better than none at all.” ‘“‘Good-bye,” said Kester as he shook some of the snow off his hat. “You may look for help in less than an hour.” “Good-bye, Mr. St. George,’’ said Skeggs, looking very earnestly at him as he did so. ‘‘ You won’t forget to send the help, will you? because if you do forget, it will be nothing more nor less than wilful murder.” | Kester laughed a short grating laugh. ‘‘ Fear nothing, Skeggs,” he said. “I won’t forget. About that other trifle, I will write you in two or three days. Again, good-bye.” Skeggs’s face had turned very white. He could not speak. He took off his hat and waved it. Kester responded by a wave of his hand, ‘Then turning on his heel he strode away through the snowy twilight. In three minutes he was lost to sight. Skeggs could no longer see him. ‘Tears came into his eyes. ‘‘ He’ll send no help, not he. I shall die here like a dog. The snow will be my winding-sheet. If ever there was mischief in a man’s eye, there was in his as he bade me good-bye.” Onward strode Kester St. George through the blinding snow. AI- together heedless of the weather was he just now. He had other things to think about. As instinctively as an Indian or a backwoods- man tracks his way across prairie or forest did he track his way across the moor, all hidden though the paths now were. He was a child of the moor. He had learned its secrets when a boy, and in his present emergency, reason and intellect must perforce give way to that blind instinct which was left him as a legacy of his youth. connicloooks (CO)