Part 21 (2/2)

”Don't know. Just meanness, perhaps. They doctored Hopewell's drink somehow, and he was acting like a fool and playing ridiculously.”

They could talk plainly before the storekeeper, for he really did not know what was going on. His face was blank and his eyes staring, but he had b.u.t.toned the violin beneath the breast of his coat.

”Come on, old fellow,” Frank said, putting a heavy hand on Drugg's shoulder. ”Let's be going. It's too wet to stand here.”

The storekeeper made no objection. Indeed, as they walked along, Hopewell between Frank and Janice, who carried the umbrella, Drugg seemed to be moving in a daze. His head hung on his breast; he said no word; and his feet stumbled as though they were leaden and he had no feeling in them.

”Mr. Bowman!” exclaimed Janice, at last, and under her breath, ”he is ill!”

”I am beginning to believe so myself,” the civil engineer returned.

”I've seen enough drunken fellows before this to know that Hopewell doesn't show many of the usual symptoms.”

Janice halted suddenly. ”There's a light in Mr. Ma.s.sey's back room,”

she said.

”Eh? Back of the drugstore? Yes, I see it,” Bowman said, puzzled.

”Why not take Mr. Drugg there and see if Ma.s.sey can give him something?

I hate to take him home to 'Rill in this condition.”

”Something to straighten him up--eh?” cried the engineer. ”Good idea.

If he's there and will let us in,” he added, referring to the druggist, for the front store was entirely dark, it being now long past the usual closing hour of all stores in Polktown.

Janice and Frank led Hopewell Drugg to the side door of the shop, he making no objection to the change in route. It was doubtful if he even knew where they were taking him. He seemed in a state of partial syncope.

Frank had to knock the second time before there was any answer. They heard voices--Ma.s.sey's and another. Then the druggist came to the entrance, unbolted it and stuck his head out--his gray hair all ruffled up in a tuft which made him, with his big beak and red-rimmed eyes, look like a startled c.o.c.katoo.

”Who's this, now? Jack Besmith again? What did I tell you?” he snapped. Then he seemed to see that he was wrong, and the next moment exclaimed: ”Wal! I am jiggered!” for, educated man though he was, Mr.

Ma.s.sey had lived in the hamlet of his birth all of his life and spoke the dialect of the community. ”Wal! I am jiggered!” he repeated.

”What ye got there?”

”I guess you see whom we have, Mr. Ma.s.sey,” said Frank Bowman pus.h.i.+ng in and leading the storekeeper.

”Oh, Mr. Ma.s.sey! It's Hopewell Drugg,” Janice said pleadingly. ”Can't you help him?”

”Janice Day! I declare to sun-up!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the druggist. ”What you beauing about that half-baked critter for? And he's drunk?”

”He is _not_!” cried the girl, with indignation. ”At least, he is like no other drunken person I have seen. He is ill. They gave him something to drink down at the Inn--at that dance where he was playing his violin--and it has made him ill. Don't you _see_?” and she stamped her foot impatiently.

”Hoity-toity, young lady!” chuckled Ma.s.sey.

They were all inside now and the druggist locked the door again.

Behind the stove, in the corner, sat Mr. Cross Moore, and he did not say a word.

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