The Colossus | Page 7

instead of
sending a letter. "Admit of no delay, but set out for home at once," the
father commanded. "Telegraph as soon as you can, and your mother
and I will meet you in New Orleans. I hope that this may not be
exploited in the newspapers. God knows that in our time we have had
enough of newspaper notoriety. Say nothing to any one, but come at
once, and we can give for publication such a statement as we think
necessary. Of course your discovery, as a sequel to your abduction
years ago and the tremendous interest aroused at the time, will be of
national importance, but I prefer that the news be sent out from this
place."
Here the handwriting was changed, and "love," "thank God," "darling
child," and emotion blots filled out the remainder of the page.
"You see," said Witherspoon, "that I have a reason for depriving you of
an early whack at this thing. Now, I have written again and told them
not to be impatient, and that I would leave here as soon as possible. I
have settled up everything here, but I've got to go to a little place away
over on the coast and close out some mining interests there."
"It must be of but trifling importance, my boy, and I should think that

you'd let it go."
"No, sir; I'm going to do my duty by that dear old man if I never do
anything else while I live."
He held not a mote of resentment. Indeed was his young heart "attuned
to the sweet melody of forgiveness."
"By the way, Hank, here's a letter for you."
The communication was brief. It was from New Orleans and ran thus:
"The five letters which we have published have awakened no interest
whatever, and I am therefore instructed to discontinue the service.
Inclosed please find check for the amount due you."
"What is it, Hank?"
"Oh, nothing except what I might have expected. Read it."
Witherspoon read the letter, and crumpling it, broke out in his
impulsive way: "That's all right, old fellow. It fits right into my plan,
and now let me tell you what that is. We'll leave here to-morrow and go
over to Dura and settle up there. I don't know how long it will take, and
I won't try to telegraph until we get through. Dura isn't known as a
harbor, it is such a miserably small place, but ships land there once in
awhile, and we can sail from there. But the main part of my plan is that
you are to go with me and live in Chicago; and I'll bet we have a
magnificent time. I'll go in the store, and I'll warrant that father--don't
that sound strange?--that father can get you a good place on one of the
newspapers. You haven't had a chance. Hank, and when you do get one,
I'll bet you can lay out the best of them. What do you say?"
"Henry," said the dark-visaged DeGolyer--and the light of affection
beamed in his eyes--"Henry, you are a positive charm; and if I should
meet a girl adorned with a disposition like yours, I would unstring my
heart, hand it to her and say, 'Here, miss, this belongs to you.'"
"Oh, you may find one. I've got a sister, you know. What! are you
trying to look embarrassed? Do you know what I'm going to say? I'm
going to lead you up to my sister and say, 'Here, I have caught you a
prince; take him.'"
"Nonsense, my boy."
"That's all right; but, seriously, will you go with me?"
"I will."
"Good. We'll get ready to-night and start early in the morning. But I
mustn't forget to see the priest again. He was a friend when I needed

one; he took charge of uncle's burial. But," he suddenly broke off with
rising spirits, "won't we have a time? Millionaire, eh? I'll learn that
business and make it worth ten millions."

CHAPTER IV
.
A STRANGE REQUEST.
The next morning, before it was well light, and at a time when brisk
youth and slow age were seeking the place of confession, Henry
Witherspoon went to the priest, not to acknowledge a sin, but to avow a
deep gratitude. The journey was begun early; it was in July. The
morning was braced with a cool breeze, the day was cloudless, and
night's lingering gleam of silver melted in the gold of morn. Young
Witherspoon's impressive nature was up with joy or down with sadness.
The prospect of his new life was a happiness, and the necessity to leave
his old uncle in a foreign country was a sore regret; so happiness and
regret strove against each other, but happiness, advantaged with a
buoyant heart as