The Master of Silence

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The Master of Silence

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Title: The Master of Silence
Author: Irving Bacheller

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Fiction, Fact, and Fancy Series Edited by Arthur Stedman
The Master of Silence

The Master of Silence
A Romance
By Irving Bacheller
New York Charles L. Webster & Co. 1892

THE MASTER OF SILENCE
CHAPTER I
Near the end of my fourteenth year I was apprenticed to Valentine,
King & Co., cotton importers, Liverpool, as a "pair of legs." My father
had died suddenly, leaving me and his property in the possession of my

stepmother and my guardian. It was in deference to their urgent advice
that I left my home in London (with little reluctance, since my life there
had never been happy) to study the art of money-making. On arriving at
the scene of my expected triumphs I was assigned to the somewhat
humble position of errand boy. In common with other boys who
performed a like service for the firm I was known as "a pair of legs."
Lodgings of a rather modest character had been secured for me in the
western outskirts of the city near the banks of the Mersey. I was slow to
make friends, and my evenings were spent in the perusal of some story
books, which I had brought with me from London. One night, not long
after the beginning of my new life in Liverpool, I was lying in bed
listening to the wind and rain beating over the housetops and driving
against the windows, when suddenly there came a loud rap at my door.
"Who's there?" I demanded, starting out of bed.
As I heard no answer, I repeated my inquiry and stood a moment
listening. I could hear nothing, however, but the wind and rain.
Lighting a candle and dressing myself with all haste, I opened the door.
I could just discern the figure of a bent old man standing in the hallway,
when a gust of wind suddenly put out the candle. The door leading to
the street was open, and the old man was probably a straggler come to
importune me for shelter or for something to eat. As I relit the candle,
he entered my room and stood facing me, but he did not speak. His
clothes were dripping and he was blinking at me with strange, gleaming
eyes. His hair was snow-white, and as I looked into his face the deathly
pallor of it frightened me. His general appearance was more than
startling; it was uncanny.
"What can I do for you?" I asked.
Greatly to my surprise he made no reply, but with a look of pain and
great anxiety sank into a chair. Then he withdrew from his pocket a
letter which he extended to me. The envelope was wet and dirty. It was
directed to Kendric Lane, Esq., No. Old Broad street, London, England.
The address was crossed and "22 Kirkland street, Liverpool," written
under it in the familiar hand of my guardian. A strange proceeding!
thought I. Was the letter intended for my father, who was long dead,

and who had removed from that address more than ten years ago? The
old man began to grin and nod as I examined the superscription. I broke
the seal on the envelope and found the following letter, undated, and
with no indication of the place from which it was sent:
"Dear Brother--I need your help. Come to me at once if you