Donaldson was aroused by the dog which
was at the door barking excitedly. It was broad
daylight. As Donaldson sprang up he heard the
brisk approach of footsteps, and the next second a
key fumbling in the lock. Before he had fully
recovered his senses the door swung open, and Barstow,
tanned and ruddy, burst in. Donaldson stared
at him and he stared at Donaldson. Then, striding
over the dog, who yelped in protest at this treatment,
Barstow approached the haggard, unshaven man who faced
him.
“Good Heavens, Peter!” he cried, “what
ails you?”
Donaldson put out his hand and the
other grasped it with the clasp of a man in perfect
health.
“Can’t you speak?”
he demanded. “What’s the matter with
you?”
“I ’m glad to see you,” answered
Donaldson.
“But what are you doing here in this condition?
Are you sick?”
“No, I ’m not sick. I lay down on
the sofa and I guess I fell asleep.”
“You look as though you had
been sleeping there a month. Sit down, man.
You have a fever.”
“There ’s your dog,” said Donaldson.
Barstow turned. The dog, with
his forefeet on Barstow’s knee, was stretching
his neck towards his master’s hand.
“Hello, pup,” he greeted
him. “Did the janitor use you all right?”
He shook him off.
Donaldson sat down. Barstow
stood in front of him a moment and then reached to
feel his pulse. It was normal.
“I ’m not sick, I tell
you,” said Donaldson, trying to laugh, “I
was just all in. I came up here to see if you
were back and slumped down on the couch. Then
I fell asleep. There ’s your dog behind
you.”
“What of it?” demanded Barstow.
“Why he looks glad to see you.”
“What of that?”
“Nothing.”
Barstow laid his hand on Donaldson’s shoulder.
“Have you been drinking?” he asked.
“Drinking? No, but I’ve a thirst
a mile long. Any water around here?”
Barstow went to the closet and came
back with a graduating glass full of lukewarm water.
Donaldson swallowed it in a couple of gulps.
“Lord, that’s good!”
Barstow again bent a perplexed gaze upon him.
“You have n’t been fooling with any sort
of dope, Peter?”
“No.”
“This is straight?”
“Yes, that’s straight,”
answered Donaldson impatiently. “I tell
you that there is n’t anything wrong with me
except that I ’m fagged out.”
“You did n’t take my advice.
You ought to have gone away. Why did n’t
you?”
“I ’ve been too busy. There’s
your dog.”
Barstow hung down his hand, that the
pup might lick the ends of his fingers.
“Peter,” he burst out,
“you ought to have been with me. If I ’d
known about the trip I ’d have taken you.
It was just what you needed a week of
lolling around a deck in the hot sun with the sea winds
blowing over your face. That’s what you
want to do get out under the blue sky and
soak it in. If you don’t believe it, look
at me. Fit as a fiddle; strong as a moose.
You said you wanted to sprawl in the sunshine, why
the devil don’t you take a week off and do it?”
“Perhaps I will.”
“That’s the stuff.
You must do it. You were in bad shape when I
left, but, man dear, you ’re on the verge of
a serious breakdown now. Do you realize it?”
“Yes, I realize it. That
’s a good dog of yours, Barstow.”
“What’s the matter with
the pup? Seems to me you ’re taking a deuce
of a lot of interest in him,” he returned suspiciously.
“Dogs seem sort of human when you ’re
alone with them.”
“This one looks more human than
you do. See here, Don, Lindsey said that he
might start off again to-morrow on a short cruise to
Newport. I think I can get you a berth with him.
Will you go?”
“It’s good of you, Barstow,”
answered Donaldson uneasily, “but I don’t
like to promise.”
Would Barstow never call the dog by
name? He could n’t ask him directly; it
would throw too much suspicion upon himself.
If Barstow had left his laboratory that night for
his trip, the chances were that the bottle was not
yet missed. He must be cautious. It would
be taking an unfair advantage of Barstow’s friendship
to allow him to feel that indirectly he had been responsible
for the death of a human being. Donaldson glanced
at his watch.
It had stopped.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Half past nine.”
Two hours and a half longer!
He determined to remain here until eleven.
If, up to that time, Barstow had not called the dog
by name he would leave. He must write that letter
and he must put himself as far out of reach of these
friends as possible before the end. If he died
on the train, his body would be put off at the next
station and a local inquest held. The verdict
would be heart disease; enough money would be found
in his pocket to bury him; and so the matter would
be dropped.
“I want you to promise, Don,”
ran on Barstow, “for I tell you that it’s
either a rest or the hospital for you. You have
nervous prostration written big all over your face.
I know how hard it is to make the initial effort
to pull out when your brain is all wound up, but you
’ll regret it if you don’t. And
you ’ll like the crowd, Don. Lindsey is
a hearty fellow, who hasn’t anything to do but
live but he does that well. He’s
clean and square as a granite corner-stone. It
will do you good to mix in with him.
“And his boat is a corker!
He spent a quarter of a million on it, and he ’s
got a French cook that would make a dead man eat.
He ’ll put fat on your bones, Don, and Lindsey
will make you laugh. You don’t laugh enough,
Don. You ’re too serious. And if
you have such weather as we ’ve had this
week you ’ll come back with a spirit that will
boost your law practice double.”
He felt of Donaldson’s arm. It was thin
and flabby.
“Good Heavens here, feel of mine!”
Donaldson grasped it with his weak
fingers. It was beastly thick and firm.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“It is twenty minutes of ten. Is time
so important to you?”
“I must get down-town before long.”
“Rot! Why don’t you drop your business
here and now. Let things rip.”
“Where ’s the dog?”
demanded Donaldson. The pup was out of sight.
He felt strangely frightened. He got up and
looked all about the room.
“Where ’s he gone?” he demanded
again.
Barstow grasped him by the shoulder.
“You must pull yourself together,”
he said seriously. “You ’re heading
for a worse place than the hospital.”
“But where the devil has he
gone? He was here a minute ago, was n’t
he?”
“Easy, easy,” soothed Barstow. “Hold
tight!”
“Find him, won’t you, Barstow? Won’t
you find him?”
To quiet him Barstow whistled.
The dog pounded his tail on the floor under the lounge.
“He ’s under there,” said Barstow.
“Get him out get him out where I
can see him, won’t you?”
Barstow stooped.
“Come, Sandy, come,” he called.
Donaldson leaped forward.
“What did you call him?” he demanded as
Barstow staggered back.
“Have you gone mad?” shouted Barstow.
“What did you call him?”
repeated Donaldson fiercely. “Tell me what
you called him?”
“I called him Sandy. Control
yourself, Don. If you let yourself go this way it’s
the end.”
“The end?” shouted Donaldson.
“Man, it ’s the beginning! It’s
just the beginning! Sandy Sandy did
n’t die after all!”
“Oh, that’s what’s
troubling you,” returned Barstow with an air
of relief. “Why did n’t you tell
me? You thought the dead had risen, eh?
No, the stuff didn’t work. The dog only
had an attack of acute indigestion from overeating.
But Gad, the coincidence was queer, when you
stop to think of it. I ’d forgotten you
left before he came to.”
“Then,” cried Donaldson
excitedly, “you did n’t have any poison
after all!”
“No. I was so busy on
more important work that my experiments with that
stuff must all of them have been slipshod. But
it did look for a minute as though Sandy here had
proven it. But, Lord, it was n’t
the poison that did for him it was his
week. His week was too much for him!”
“Give me your hand, Barstow.
Give me your hand. I ’m limp as a rag.”
“That’s your nerves again.
If you were normal, the mere fact that you thought
you saw a spook dog would n’t leave you in this
shape. Come over here and sit down.”
“Get me some water, old man get me
a long, long drink.”
When Barstow handed him the glass,
which must have held a pint, Donaldson trembled so
that he could hold it to his lips only by using both
hands, as those with palsy do. He swallowed it
in great gulps. He felt as though he were burning
up inside. The room began to swim around him,
but with his hands kneading into the old sofa he warded
off unconsciousness. He must not lose a single
minute in blankness. He must get back to her get
back to her as soon as he could stand. She was
suffering, too, though in another way. He must
not let another burning minute scorch her.
“Perhaps you ’ll take
my advice now,” Barstow was saying, “perhaps
you were near enough the brink that time to listen
to me. Tell me I may ring up Lindsey tell
me now that you ’ll go with him.”
“Go away? Go out
to sea?” cried Donaldson.
“Yes. To-morrow morning.”
“Why, Lord, man! Lord,
man!” he panted, “I would n’t
leave New York I would n’t go out
there for for a million dollars.”
“You damned ass!” growled Barstow.
“I I would n’t go,
if the royal yacht of the King of England
were waiting for me.”
“Some one ought to have the
authority to put you in a strait-jacket and carry
you off. I tell you you ’re headed for
the madhouse, Don!”
Donaldson staggered to his feet.
He put his trembling hands on Barstow’s shoulders.
“No,” he faltered, “no,
I ’m headed for life, for life, Barstow!
You hear me? I ’m headed for a paradise
right here in New York.”
Barstow felt baffled. The man
was in as bad a way as he had ever seen a man, but
he realized the uselessness of combatting that stubborn
will. There was nothing to do but let him go
on until he was struck down helpless. From the
bottom of his heart be pitied him. This was
the result of too much brooding alone.
“Peter,” he said, “the
loneliest place in this world is New York. Are
you going to let it kill you?”
“No! It came near it,
but I ’ve beaten it. I ’m bigger
now than the dear old merciless city. It’s
mine down to every dark alley. I ’ve
got it at my feet, Barstow. It is n’t going
to kill me, it’s going to make me grow.
It is n’t any longer my master it’s
a good-natured, obedient servant. New York?”
he laughed excitedly. “What is New York
but a little strip of ground underneath the stars?”
“That would sound better if
your eyes were clearer and your hand steadier.”
“You ’d expect a man to
be battered up a little, would n’t you, after
a hard fight? I ’ve fought the hardest
thing in the world there is to fight shadows,
Barstow, shadows with the King Shadow itself
at their head.”
Was the man raving? It sounded
so, but Donaldson’s eyes, in spite of their
heaviness, were not so near those of madness as they
had been a moment ago. The startled look had
left his face. Every feature stood out brightly,
as though lighted from within. His voice was
fuller, and his language, though obscure, more like
that of the old Donaldson. Barstow was mystified.
“Had n’t you better lie down here again?”
he suggested.
“I must go, now. What what
time is it, old man?”
“Five minutes past ten.”
Donaldson took a deep breath.
Time how it stretched before him like a
flower-strewn path without end. He heard the
friendly tick-tock at his wrists. The minutes
were so many jewel boxes, each containing the choice
gift of so many breaths, so many chances to look into
her eyes, so many chances to fulfil duties, so many
quaffs of life.
“My watch has run down,”
he said, with curious seriousness. “I ’m
going to wind it up again. I ’m going to
wind it up again, Barstow.”
He proceeded to do this as though
engaged in some mystic rite.
“May I set it by your watch?
I ’d like to set it by your watch, Barstow.”
He adjusted the hands tenderly, again
as though it were the act of a high priest.
“Now,” he said, “it’s
going straight. I shall never let the old thing
run down again. I think it hurts a watch, don’t
you, Barstow?”
“Yes,” answered the latter,
amazed at his emphasis upon such trivialities.
“Now,” he said, “I
must hurry. Where’s my hat? Oh, there
it is. And Sandy where’s Sandy?”
The dog crawled out at once at the
sound of his name, and he stooped to pet him a moment.
“I don’t suppose you ’d sell Sandy,
would you, Barstow?”
“I ’ll give him to you,
if you ’ll take him off. I have n’t
a fit place to keep him.”
“May I take him now? May I take him with
me?”
“Yes if you’ll come back to
me to-morrow and report how you are.”
“I ’ll do it. I ’ll be here
to-morrow.”
He cuddled the dog into his arm and held out his hand.
“Don’t worry about me,
old man. Just a little rattled that’s all.
But fit as a fiddle; strong as a moose, even if I
don’t look it as you do!”
Barstow took his hand, and when Donaldson
left, stood at the head of the stairs anxiously watching
him make his way to the street, hugging the dog tightly
to his side.