The Colossus | Page 6

three years, and then I sent to a
Kansas newspaper an account of my death. It was printed, and I sent
my brother a marked copy of the paper. Two weeks later I was in
Salem. I wore a beard, kept myself close, and no one recognized me. I
waited for an opportunity. It came, and I stole my brother's boy. I went
to Boston, to Europe, back to America; lived here and there, and you
know the rest. My dear boy, I repented somewhat, and it was my
intention, at some time, to restore you to your parents, but you yourself
were their enemy; you crept into my heart and I could not pluck you
out. For a time the story of your mysterious disappearance filled the
newspapers. You were found in a hundred towns, year after year, and
when your sensation had run its course, you became the joke of the
paragraphers. It was no longer, 'Who struck Billy Patterson?" but 'Who
stole Henry Witherspoon?' Once I saw your father in New Orleans. He

had come to identify his boy; but he went away with another
consignment added to his large stock of disappointment. Finally all
hope was apparently abandoned and even the newspapers ceased to
find you.
"Your father and mother now live in Chicago. George Witherspoon is
one of the great merchants of that city, and is more than a millionaire.
This is why I have so often told you that one day you would be worth
money. You were young and could afford to wait; I was old, and to me
the present was everything, and you were the present.
"For some time I have been threatened with sudden death; I have felt it
at night when you were asleep; and now I have written a confession
which for years I irresolutely put aside from day to day. I charge you to
bury me as Andrew Witherspoon, for in the grave I hope to be myself,
with nothing to hide. Write at once to your father, and after settling up
my affairs, which I urge you not to neglect, you can go to him. In the
commercial world a high place awaits you, and though I have done you
a great wrong, I hope that your recollection of my deep love for you
may soften your resentment and attune your young heart to the sweet
melody of forgiveness.
"ANDREW WITHERSPOON."
DeGolyer folded the paper, returned it to Henry and sat in silence. He
looked at the smoking lamp and listened to the barking of the hungry
dogs.
"What do you think, Hank?"
"I don't know what to think."
"But ain't it the strangest thing you ever heard of?"
"Yes, it is strange, and yet not so strange to me. It is simply the sequel
to a well-known story. In the streets of New Orleans, years ago, when I
could scarcely carry a bundle of newspapers, I cried your name. The
story was getting old then, for I remember that the people paid but little
attention to it."
They sat for a time in silence. Young Witherspoon spoke, but
DeGolyer did not answer him. They heard a guitar and a Spanish love
song.
"Yes, it is strange," said DeGolyer, coming hack from a wandering
reverie. "It is strange that I should be here with you;" and under a
quickening of his newspaper instincts, he added, "and I shall have the

writing of it."
"But wait awhile before you let your mind ran on on that, Hank. I don't
want to be described and talked about so much. I know it can't be kept
out of the papers, but we'll discuss that after a while. Now, let me tell
you what I've done. I wrote to--to--father--don't that sound strange? I
wrote to him and sent him a copy of uncle's paper--I would have sent
the original, but I wanted to show that to you. I also sent a note that
mother--there it is again--wrote to uncle a long time ago, and a lock of
hair and some other little tricks. I told him to write to me, and here's his
letter. It came nearly four weeks ago. And think, Hank, I've got a
sister--grown and handsome, too, I'll bet."
Ecstasy had almost made the letter incoherent. It was written first by
one and then another hand, with frequent interchanges; and DeGolyer;
who fancied that he could pick character oat of the marks of a pen,
thought that a mother's heart had overflowed and that a hard,
commercial hand had cramped itself to a strange employment--the
expression of affection. The father deplored the fact that his son could
not be reached by telegraph, and still more did he lament his inability,
on account of urgent business demands, to come himself