My Fire Opal, and Other Tales. Sarah Warner Brooks
you twig, Bill? Why, my fine tar, you're in the lock-up, to be sure."
"In the lock-up!" said Jack; "and how in thunder came I here?"
"Brung here, of course," responded his informant, "'t ain't a road folks gin'ally travels on their own account, eh, Bill?" Bill assenting, with a prodigious wink, Jack propounded a third query: "And what the deuce may I be here for?"
"Here for?" responded the garrulous ruffian. "Thunderin' black job, my cove! Got drunk last night, and killed a man!"
"Killed a man!" groaned Jack, his eyes dilating, and his flesh creeping with sudden horror. "Killed a man! My God! what will Will Ferguson say?"
"Ferguson? Bill – Bill Ferguson," growled the other burglar. "By jiminy, Tom! he wants to know what Bill Ferguson'll say! Precious little, I'm thinkin'; he's about said his say! Why, grampus, Bill Ferguson's the very indentercal chap you've done for!"
Officer L – long remembered a cry that woke the echoes of the lock-up on that May morning. It might have been the yell of a hunted thing at bay, the outcry of a mortal in fierce extremity, the despairing wail of a hell-tormented soul.
Turning the key in the lock of No. 17, he hastily entered that apartment. On the floor, face downward, lay a man.
"Cove in a fit," explained the facetious Tom. "Bill, here, jes' let on 'bout the killin', an' he gin a howl an' went off in a jiffy."
Officer L – was humane. Good men, thank God! fill many of these humble places of authority. Silencing the bold ruffian, he bade the pair help raise the senseless form and adjust it on the rude cot. This done, he smoothed the tossed hair, wiped the foam from the purple lips, and chafed the great brown hands as helpfully as if they had been little "May's," the dear sick lamb of his own pretty flock. At length, the convulsive throes ceased, and consciousness returned to the stricken man.
Like some dim-remembered dream, the curt, cruel words of the burglar recalled themselves to Gravesend's bewildered brain. One look into the kindly face of the officer reassured him. Feebly rising to his feet, he sank upon his trembling knees, and prayed brokenly to hear it all. He was "all right again, and wanted to know the whole truth. He could bear the very worst, and would thank him for it; indeed, sir, he would." The "very worst" was soon told.
There had been, explained the officer, on the previous night, a drunken row at a dance-house on North Street. The prisoner had, unfortunately, been concerned in the affair, and, in the temporary frenzy of intoxication, had drawn his dirk upon a woman. A young man, who had hitherto looked on, taking no part in the mêlée, now dashed in to arrest the assailant's hand, and himself received the murderous thrust. The brawlers had been duly arrested, the youth carried to the hospital, where, his wound proving mortal, he had, in half an hour, expired.
On his body a small diary had been found. It was inscribed:
"Willie Ferguson, from his mother.
Springfield, Jan. 1, 18 – ."
Will – Fergus-on, Springfield, – 18 – Will – Springfield – from – his – mother. 18 – Will, Willie, Will. Will Ferguson. He had sworn never to forget him. He is keeping his oath! Will – W-i-l-l F-e-r-g-u-s-o-n. There it is; on the walls, on the ceiling, up and down, over and across! Everywhere, everywhere, the name, the weary, weary name!
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.