The Colossus by Opie Read

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"It's nothing but a fake," he answered.

"But get a paper and see; won't you?"

"Yes, as soon as I can."

They were so crowd-pressed that it was some time before they could
reach one of the boys; and when they did, Ellen snatched a paper and
attempted to read it by the light of the carriage lamp.

"Wait until we get home," he said. "I tell you it amounts to nothing."

"No, we will go to a restaurant," she replied.

The sensation was a half column of frightening head on a few inches of
smeared body. It declared that recent developments pointed to the fact
that Witherspoon and Brooks knew more concerning the whereabouts of
Dave Kittymunks than either of them cared to tell. It was known that
old Colton's extreme conservatism had been regarded as an obstruction,
and that while they might not actually have figured in the murder, yet
they were known to be pleased at the result, that the large reward was
all a "bluff," and that it was to their interest to aid the escape of
Kittymunks.

Before breakfast the next morning Brooks was at Witherspoon's house. A
"friend" had called his attention to the article. Had it appeared in
one of the reputable journals instead of in this fly-by-night smircher
of the characters of men, a suit for criminal libel would have been
brought, but to give countenance to this slander was to circulate it;
and therefore the two men were resolved not to permit the infamy to
place them under the contribution of a moment's worry.

"The character of a successful man is a target to be shot at by the
envious," said Witherspoon. He was pacing the room, and anger had
hardened his step. "A target to be shot at," he repeated, "and the
shots are free."

"I didn't know what to do," Brooks replied. He stood on the hearth-rug
with his hands behind him. "I was so worried that I couldn't sleep
after I saw the thing late last night; and my wife was crying when I
left home."

"Infamous scoundrels!" Witherspoon muttered.

"I didn't think anything could be done," Brooke continued, "but I
thought it best to see you at once."

"Of course," said Witherspoon.

"But, after all, don't you think we ought to have those wretches
locked up?" Brooke asked.

"Yes," Witherspoon answered, "and we ought to have them hanged, but we
might as well set out to look for Kittymunks. Ten chances to one they
are not here at all; the thing might have been printed in a town three
hundred miles from here."

"Yes, that's so," Brooks admitted; and addressing Henry, who stood at
a window, gazing out, he added: "What do you think about it?"

Henry did not heed the question, so forgetfully was he gazing, and
Brooks repeated it.

"If you have decided not to worry," Henry answered, "it is better not
to trouble yourselves at all. I doubt whether you could ever find the
publishers of the paper."

"You are right," Brooks agreed.

"Character used to be regarded as something at least half way sacred,"
said Witherspoon, "but now, like an old plug hat, it is kicked about
the streets. And yet we boast of our freedom. Freedom, indeed! So
would it be freedom to sit at a window and shoot men as they pass. I
swear to God that I never had as much trouble and worry as I've had
lately. _Everything_ goes wrong. What about Jordway & Co., of Aurora?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Brooks answered. "Jordway has killed
himself, and the affairs of the firm are in a hopeless tangle."

"Of coarse," Witherspoon replied, "and we'll never get a cent."

"I'm afraid not, sir. I cautioned you against them, you remember."

"Never saw anything like it," Witherspoon declared, not recalling the
caution that Brooks had advised, or not caring to acknowledge it.

"Oh, everything may come out all right. Pardon me, Mr. Witherspoon,
but I think you need rest"

"There is no rest," Witherspoon replied.

"And yet," said Henry, turning from the window, "you took me to task
for saying that I sometimes felt there was nothing in the entire
scheme of life."

"For saying it at your age, yes. You have but just begun to try life
and have no right to condemn it."

"I didn't condemn it without a hearing. Isn't there something wrong
when the poor are wretched and the rich are miserable?"

"Nonsense," said Witherspoon.

"Oh, but that's no argument."

"Isn't it? Well, then there shall be none."

"I must be getting back," said Brooks.

"Won't you stay to breakfast?" Witherspoon asked. "It will be ready in
a few minutes. Hum"--looking at his watch--"ought to have been ready
long ago. Everything goes wrong. Can't even get anything to eat. I'll
swear I never saw the like."

"I'm much obliged, but I can't stay," Brooks answered.

"Well, I suppose I shall be down to the store some time to-day. If
anybody calls to see me, just say that I am at home, standing round
begging for something to eat. Good morning."

Henry laughed, and the merchant gave him a strained look. For a moment
the millionaire bore a striking likeness to old Andrew, at the time
when he declared that the devil had gone wrong. The young man sought
to soothe him when Brooks was gone; he apologized for laughing; he
said that he keenly felt that there was cause for worry, but that the
picture of a Chicago merchant standing about at home begging for his
breakfast, while important business awaited him at the store, was
enough to crack the thickest crust of solemnity. The merchant's
dignity was soon brought back; never was it far beyond his reach. At
breakfast he was severe with silence.

Over and over again during the day Henry repeated Richmond's words,
"Whom does it benefit" and these words went to bed with him, and as
though restless, they turned and tossed themselves upon his mind
throughout the night, and like children, they clamored to be taken up
at early morning, to be dressed in the many colors of supposition.

CHAPTER XXI.

A HELPLESS OLD WOMAN.

In Kansas City was arrested a suspicious-looking man, who, upon being
taken to jail, confessed that his name was Dare Kittymunks and owned
that he had killed old man Colton. Thus was ended the search for the
murderer, the newspapers said, and the vigilance of the Kansas City
police was praised. But it soon transpired that the prisoner had been
a street preacher in Topeka at the time when the murder was committed,
that he had on that day created a sensation by announcing himself John
the Baptist and swearing that all other Johns the Baptist were base
impostors. The fellow was taken to an asylum for the insane, and the
search for Dave Kittymunks was resumed.

Old Mrs. Colton had not moved a muscle since the night of the murder.
She lay looking straight at the ceiling, and in her eyes was an
expression that seemed constantly to repeat, "My body is dead, but my
mind is alive." Once every week the pastor of her church came to see
her. He was an old man, threatened with palsy, and had long ago ceased
to find pleasure in the appetites and vanities of this life. He came
on Sunday, just before the time for evening services in the church,
and kneeling at the old woman's chair, which he placed near her
bedside, lifted his shaking voice in prayer. It was a touching sight,
one infirmity pleading for another, palsy praying for paralysis; but
upon these devotions Brooks began to look with a frown.

"What is the use of it?" he asked, speaking to his wife. "If a
celebrated specialist can't do her any good, I know that an old man's
prayer can't."

"We ought not to deny her anything," the wife answered.

"And we ought not to inflict her with anything," the husband replied.

"Prayer was never an infliction to her."

"But this old man's praying is an infliction to the rest of us."

"Not to me; and you needn't hear him."

"I can't help it if I'm at home."

"But you needn't be at home when he comes."

"Oh, I suppose I could go over and stand on the lake shore, but it
would be rather unpleasant this time of year."

"There are other places you can go."

"Oh, I suppose so. Doesn't make any difference to you, of course,
where I go."

"Not much," she answered.

The Witherspoon family was gathered one evening in the mother's room.
It was Mrs. Witherspoon's birthday, and it was a home-like picture,
this family group, with the mother sitting in a rocking-chair, fondly
looking about and giving the placid heed of love to Henry whenever he
spoke. On the walls were hung the portraits of early Puritans, the
brave and rugged ancestors of Uncle Louis and Uncle Harvey, and all
her mother's people, who were dark.

Ellen had been imitating a Miss Miller, who, it was said, was making a
determined set at Henry, and Witherspoon was laughing at the aptness
of his daughter's mimicry.

"I must confess," said Mrs. Witherspoon, slowly rocking herself, "that
I don't see anything to laugh at. Miss Miller is an exceedingly nice
girl, I'm sure, but I don't think she is at all suited to my son. She
giggles at everything, and Henry is too sober-minded for that sort of
a wife."

"But marriage would probably cure her giggling," Witherspoon replied,
slyly winking at Henry. "To a certain kind of a girl there is nothing
that so inspires a giggle as the prospect of marriage, but marriage
itself is the greatest of all soberers--it sometimes removes all
traces of the previous intoxication."

"Now, George, what is the use of talking that way?" She rarely called
him George. "You know as well as you know anything that I didn't
giggle. Of course I was lively enough, but I didn't go about giggling
as Miss Miller does."

"Oh, perhaps not exactly as Miss Miller does, but"--

"George!"

"I say you didn't. But anybody can see that Ellen is a sensible girl,
and yet she giggles."

"Not at the prospect of marriage, papa," the girl replied. "To look at
Mr. Brooks and his wife is quite enough to make me serious."

"Brooks and his wife? What do you mean?"

"Perhaps I oughtn't to have said anything, but they appear to make
each other miserable. There, now, I wish I _hadn't_ said anything. I
might have known that it would make you look glum."

"How do you know that they make each other miserable?"

"I know this, that when they should be on their good behavior they
can't keep from snapping at each other. I was over there this
afternoon, and when Mr. Brooks came home he began to growl about the
preacher's coming once a week to pray for Mrs. Colton. He ought to be
ashamed of himself. The poor old creature lies there so helpless; and
he wants to deny her even the consolation of hearing her pastor's
voice. And he knows that she was so devoted to the church."

"My daughter," Witherspoon gravely said, "there must be some mistake
about this."

"But I know that there isn't any mistake about it. I was there, I tell
you."

"And still there may be some mistake," Witherspoon insisted.

"What doctor's treating the old lady?" Henry asked.

"A celebrated specialist, Brooks tells me," Witherspoon answered.

"What's his name?"

"I don't remember," said Witherspoon. "Do you know, Ellen?"

"Doctor Linmarck," Ellen answered.

"Let us not think of anything so very unpleasant," said Mrs.
Witherspoon.

But the spirit of pleasantry was flown. With another imitation of Miss
Miller, Ellen strove to call it back, but failed, for Witherspoon paid
no attention to her. He sat brooding, with a countenance as fixed as
the expression of a mask, and in his gaze, bent on that nothing
through which nothing can be seen, there was no light.

"Father, do your new slippers fit?" Mrs. Witherspoon asked. He was not
George now.

"Very nicely," he answered, with a warning absentmindedness.
Presently he went to the library, and shutting out the amenities of
that cheerful evening, shut in his own somber brooding.

"I don't see why he should let that worry him so," said Mrs.
Witherspoon. "He's getting to be so sensitive over Brooks."

"I don't think it's his sensitiveness over Brooks, mother," Ellen
replied, "but the fact that he is gradually finding out that Brooks is
not so perfect as he pretends to be."

"I don't know," the mother rejoined, "but I think he has just as much
confidence in Brooks as he ever had. I know he said last night that
the Colossus couldn't get along without him."

"Ellen," said Henry, "what is the name of that doctor?"

"Linmarck. It isn't so hard to remember, is it?"

"No, but I forgot it."

Immediately after reaching the office the next day, Henry sent for a
reporter who had lived so long in Chicago that he was supposed
thoroughly to know the city.

"Are you acquainted with Doctor Linmarck?" Henry asked when the
reporter entered the room.

"Linmarck? Let me see. No, don't think I am."

"Did you ever hear of him?"

"What's his particular line?"

"Paralysis, I think."

"No, I've never heard of him."

"Well, find out all you can about him and let me know as soon as
possible. And say," he added as the reporter turned to go, "don't say
a word about it."

"All right."

Several hours later the reporter returned. "Did you learn anything?"
Henry asked.

"Yes, about all there is to learn, I suppose. He has an office on
Wabash Avenue, near Twelfth Street. I called on him."

"Does he look like a great specialist?"

"Well, his beard is hardly long enough for a great specialist."

"But does he appear to be prosperous?"

"His location stands against that supposition."

"But does he strike you as being an impostor?"

"Well, not exactly that; but I shouldn't like to be paralyzed merely
to give him a chance to try his hand on me. I told him that I had
considerable trouble with my left arm, and he asked if I had ever been
afflicted with rheumatism, or if I had ever been stricken with typhoid
fever, or--I don't remember how many diseases he tried on suspicion. I
told him that so far as I knew I had been in excellent health, and
then he began to ask me about my parents. I told him that they were
dead and that I didn't care to be treated for any disease that they
might have had. I asked him where he was from, and he said
Philadelphia. He hasn't been here long, but is treating some very
prominent people, he says. There may be a reason why he should be
employed, but I failed to find it."

CHAPTER XXII.

TO GO ON A VISIT.

A month must have passed since Henry had sought to investigate the
standing of Dr. Linmarck, when, one evening, Ellen astonished her
father with the news that old Mrs. Colton was to be taken on a visit
to her sister, who lived in New Jersey. The sister had written an
urgent letter to Mrs. Brooks, begging that the old lady might
straightway be sent to her, and offering to relieve Mr. Brooks of all
the trouble and responsibility that might be incurred by the journey.
She would send her son and her family physician. Witherspoon grunted
at so absurd a request and was surprised that Brooks should grant it.
The old woman might die on the train, and besides, what possible
pleasure could she extract from such a visit? It was nonsense.

"But suppose the poor old creature wants to go?" said Mrs.
Witherspoon.

"Ah, but how is any one to know whether she does or not?"

"Of course no one can tell what she thinks, but it is reasonable to
suppose that she would like to see her sister."

"Oh, yes, it is reasonable to suppose almost anything when you start
out on that line; but it's not common sense to act upon almost any
supposition. Of course, the old lady can live but a short time, and I
think that if she were given her own choice she would prefer to die in
her own bed. I shall advise Brooks not to let her go."

"I hope you'll not do that," said Henry, and he spoke with an
eagerness that caused the merchant to give him a look of sharp
inquiry. "I hope that you'll not seek to deprive the sister, who I
presume is a very old woman, of the pleasure of sheltering one so
closely related to her. The trip may be fatal, and yet it might be a
benefit. At any rate don't advise Brooks not to let her go."

"Oh, it's nothing to me," Witherspoon replied, "and I didn't suppose
that it was so much to the rest of you. How I do miss that old man!"
he added after musing for a few moments. "The peculiar laugh he had
when pleased became a very distressing cough whenever he fancied that
his expenses were running too high, and every day I am startled by
some noise that sounds like his hack, hack! And just as frequently I
hear his good-humored ha, ha! He had never gone away during the
summer, but he told me that this summer he was going to a
watering-place and enjoy himself. 'And, Witherspoon,' he said, 'I'm
going to spend money right and left.' Picture that old man spending
money either right or left. He would have backed out when the time
came. Some demand would have kept him at home."

"His will leaves everything to his wife, I believe," Henry remarked.

"Yes, with the proviso that at her death it is to go to Mrs. Brooks.
Brooks has already taken Colton's place in the store, and now the
question is, Who can fill Brooks' place?"

"I don't think you will have any trouble in filling it," Henry
replied. "No matter who drops out, the affairs of this life go
on just the same. A man becomes so identified with a business
that people think it couldn't be run without him. He dies, and the
business--improves."

"Yes, it appears so," Witherspoon admitted; "but what I wanted to get
at, coming straight to the point, is this: I need you now more than
ever before. One of the penalties of wealth is that a rich man is
forced constantly to fumble about in the dark, feeling for some one
whose touch may inspire confidence. That's the position I'm in."

"You make a strong appeal," said Henry, "far stronger than any
personal advantages you could point out to me."

"But is it strong enough to move you?"

"It might be strong enough to move me to a sacrifice of myself, and
still fail to draw me into a willingness to risk the opinion you have
expressed of what you term my manliness. As a business man I know that
I should be a failure, and then I'd have your pity instead of your
good opinion. Let me tell you that I am a very ordinary man. I haven't
the quickness which is a business man's enterprise, nor that judgment
which is his safeguard. My newspaper is a success, but it is mainly
because I have a capable man in the business office. It grieves me to
disappoint you, and I will take an oath that if I felt myself capable
I'd cheerfully give up journalism and place myself at your service."

"Father," said Mrs. Witherspoon--and anxiously she had been watching
her husband--"I don't see what more he could say."

"He has said quite enough," Witherspoon replied.

"But you are not angry, are you, papa?" Ellen asked.

"No, I'm hurt."

"I'm very sorry," said Henry, "but permit me to say that a man of your
strength of mind shouldn't be hurt by a present disappointment that
may serve to prevent a possible calamity in the future."

"High-sounding nonsense. I could pick up almost any bootblack and make
a good business man of him."

"But you can't pick up almost any boy and make a good bootblack of
him. The bootblack is already a business man in embryo."

Witherspoon did not reply to this statement. He mused for a few
moments and then remarked: "If it weren't too late we might make a
preacher of you."

Mrs. Witherspoon's countenance brightened. "I am sure he would make a
good one," she said. "My grandfather was a minister, and we have a
book of his sermons now, somewhere. If you want it, my son, I will get
it for you."

"Not to-night, mother."

"I didn't mean to-night. Ellen, what _are_ you giggling at?"

"Why, mother, he would rather smoke that old black pipe than to read
any book that was ever printed."

"When I saw the pipe that had robbed Kittymunks of his coat," said
Henry, "I thought of my pipe tied with a ribbon."

During the remainder of the evening Witherspoon joined not in the
conversation, he sat brooding, and when bed-time came, he stood in his
accustomed place on the hearth-rug and wound his watch, still
appearing to gaze at something far away.

CHAPTER XXIII.

HENRY'S INCONSISTENCY.

Snorting March came as if blown in off the icy lake, and oozy April
fell from the clouds. How weary we grow of winter in a cold land, and
how loath is winter to permit the coming of spring! May stole in from
the south. There came a warm rain, and the next morning strips of
green were stretched along the boulevards.

Nature had unrolled double widths of carpet during the night, and at
sunset a yellow button lay where the ground had been harsh so long--a
dandelion. An old man, in whom this blithe air stirred a recollection
of an amative past, sat on a bench in the park, watching the
flirtations of thrill-blooded youth, and pale mothers, housed so long
with fretful children, turned loose their cares upon the grass. It was
a lolling-time, a time to lose one's self in the blue above, or
sweetly muse over the green below.

One night a hot wind came, and the nest morning was summer. The horse
that had drawn coal during the winter, now hitched to an ice wagon,
died in the street. The pavements throbbed, the basement restaurants
exhaled a sickening air, and through the grating was blown the
cellar's cool and mouldy breath; and the sanitary writer on the
editorial page cried out: "Boil your drinking-water!"

It was Witherspoon's custom, during the heated term, to take his wife
and his daughter to the seaside, and to return when the weather there
became insufferably hot. It was supposed that Henry would go, but when
the time came he declared that he had in view a piece of work that
most not be neglected. Witherspoon recognized the urgency of no work
except his own. "What, you can't go!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean
by 'can't go'?"

"I mean simply that it is not convenient for me to get away at this
time."

"And is it your scheme now to act entirely upon your own convenience?
Can't you sometimes pull far enough away from yourself to forget your
own convenience?"

"Oh, yes, but I can't very well forget that on this occasion it is
almost impossible for me to get away. Of course you don't understand
this, and I am afraid that if I should try I couldn't make it very
clear to you."

"Oh, you needn't make any explanation to me, I assure you. I had
planned an enjoyment for your mother and sister, and if you desire to
interfere with it, I have nothing more to say."

"I have no business that shall interfere with their enjoyment," Henry
replied. "I'm ready to go at any time."

The next day Witherspoon said: "Henry, if you have decided to go,
there is no use of my leaving home."

"Now there's no need of all this sacrifice," Mrs. Witherspoon
protested, "for the truth is I don't want to go anyway. During the hot
weather I am never so comfortable anywhere as I am at home. My son,
you shall not go on my account; and as for Ellen, she can go with
some of our friends. But, father, I do think that you need rest."

"Very true," he admitted, "but unfortunately we can't drop a worry and
run away from it."

"But what is worrying you now?"

"_Everything_. Nothing goes on as it should, and every day it seems
that a new annoyance takes hold of me."

"In your time you have advised many a man to be sensible," said Henry,
"and now if you please, permit a man who has never been very sensible
to advise you." Witherspoon looked at him. "My advice is, be
sensible."

In a fretful resentment Witherspoon jerked his shoulder as if with
muscular force he sought a befitting reply, but he said nothing and
Henry continued: "This may be impudence on my part, but in impudence
there may lie a good intention and a piece of advice that may not be
bad. The worry of a strong man is a sign of danger. The truth is that
if you keep on this way you'll break down."

"None of you know what you are talking about," Witherspoon declared.
"I'm as strong as I ever was. I'm simply annoyed, that's all."

"Why don't you see the doctor?" his wife asked.

"What do I want to see him for? What does he know about it? Don't you
worry. I'm all right."

His fretfulness was not continuous. Sometimes his spirits rose to
exceeding liveliness, and then he laughed at the young man and joked
him about Miss Miller. But a single word, however lightly spoken,
served to turn him back to peevishness. One evening Henry remarked
that he was compelled to leave town on the day following and that he
might be absent nearly a week.

"Why, how is this?" Witherspoon asked, with a sudden change of manner.
"The other day you almost swore that it was impossible for you to
leave home, and now you are compelled to go. What do you mean?"

"I have business out of town, and it demands my attention."

"_Business_ out of town. The other day you despised business; now
you've got business out of town. I'll take an oath right now that you
are the strangest mortal I ever struck."

"I admit the appearance of inconsistency," Henry replied.

"And I _know_ the existence of it," Witherspoon rejoined.

"You think so. The truth is that the affair I now have on hand had
something to do with my objecting to leave town last week."

"Why don't you tell me what it is?"

"I will when the time is ripe."

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