Part 14 (1/2)

”I want to go up and take a look 'round,” he said, ”but I can't find Timothy anywhere. It may be a bear--and I am an old man. Will you come along with me, Benjamin?”

”Sure. If you can lend me a gun,” replied Mr. Samson.

They found a shot-gun, slipped two cartridges loaded with buckshot into the breech, bade Mrs. Beesley sit quiet and be of good heart, and set out to investigate the little hillside clearing. It was now dusk. The sun had slipped from sight, and the shadows were deep in the woods. The captain carried a lighted lantern, and Benjamin the ready fowling piece.

They soon reached the poplar tree and the blanket-swathed figure bound against it. By lantern light it looked more grotesque and monstrous than by day, and Mr. Samson came within an ace of taking a snap shot at it, and then beating a hasty retreat. The captain was too quick for him, however, noticed the twitch of the miller's arm, and gripped him by the wrist.

”It's tied fast, whatever it is,” he said.

”Don't you see the ropes? Come on, Benjamin, and keep a grip on your nerve. Here, let me take the gun!”

”I ain't scart,” replied Samson thickly. ”It gave me a start for a second, that's all.”

They approached the shapeless figure cautiously.

”Who are you?” cried Wigmore.

The thing twisted and squirmed, and a m.u.f.fled, choking, b.e.s.t.i.a.l sound came from it.

”I'll bet a dollar it's a man,” said Benjamin. ”Now what kind o' trick is this, I'd like to know? Maybe there's bin murder done. There's bin too many queer tricks 'round here lately to suit me.”

”It is tied up in a blanket,” said the captain. ”Feel it, Benjamin, and find out what it is.”

”Not me,” returned Samson. ”I guess it's only a man, but I ain't particular about feelin' of it. You go ahead, cap'n. I'll hold the light for you.”

Old Wigmore stepped closer to the blanketed form and touched it gingerly with his left hand. It squirmed beneath his fingers, and again gave utterance to that amazing sound.

”Yes, it's a human being,” said the captain. And then, ”Bless my soul, look at his feet! It's poor Timothy Fletcher, by Heaven! Quick, Benjamin, lend a hand here! Cut that rope, man!”

In less than half a minute old Timothy was free. Lacking the support of the rope that had circled his chest and the tree, he tipped forward and slid heavily to the ground. The captain knelt beside him.

”Run to the house and get some brandy,” he ordered. ”You'll find some in my bedroom, behind the wardrobe. Make haste, Benjamin!”

”Well,” replied Benjamin Samson, ”I reckon I don't have to, cap'n. Queer thing, cap'n, but I happen to have a drop o' rye whisky in my pocket.

Ain't carried sech a thing for years and years--but I've had a spell o'

toothache lately and t' only thing does it any good's rye whisky. I hold some in my mouth now and again--and always spit it out, of course. Here you are, cap'n, and welcome.”

Wigmore twisted out the cork and held the bottle to Timothy's lips.

Timothy's eyes were shut, but his lips were open. His throat seemed to be in working order.

”He takes it like a baby takes its milk,” said Benjamin. ”I guess he ain't bin murdered, after all. There! I reckon he's had about all that's good for him. Wake up, Mr. Fletcher, and tell us all about it.”

”Tell me who did this, my good Timothy, and I'll make it hot for him,”

said Wigmore. ”When did it happen, my worthy friend?”

”This here country's gettin' that lawless it ain't fit fer honest men like us to live in no longer,” said Mr. Samson.

Timothy growled and sat up. He glared at Benjamin, then turned his gaze upon his master.