Part 29 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE ENEMY.

Walter broke into a weak, hysterical laugh, ”and I took that for a spirit,” he exclaimed. ”Well, our mystery is solved now.”

”Yes,” his chum admitted, looking down at the dead bell-ringer with a kind of regret, ”still there are some points about it which still remain a mystery, and always will. There is no record of there ever being monkeys found in this state. It must have been brought here by one of the Spanish gentlemen as a pet and taught the trick of ringing the bell, and yet, that theory is unbelieveable. Consider, Walter, if such is the case, this creature has reached an incredible age.”

Walter bent down and flashed the torch in the monkey's face. ”He looks as though he had lived for centuries,” he exclaimed, ”his face is like that of a shriveled mummy, and see, that look of cunning and aged-wisdom in his features. Charley,” continued the tender-hearted boy with a break in his voice, ”I feel as badly about it as I would if I had shot a man. Think of the poor, harmless creature, remaining true year after year to the one task he knew how to perform, and then to be shot down at last while doing it.”

”Nonsense, this is no time for sentiment. We must get back to our post, we have left it altogether too long. You will have to help me back, I guess, Walt,” Charley said.

”How did you get here?” demanded his chum, the current of his thoughts suddenly changed. ”Why, your trousers' leg is wet with blood and you are as pale as a ghost.”

”I couldn't have walked a hundred feet under ordinary circ.u.mstances, but that scream brought me here on the run. Now that the excitement is over I feel weak as a kitten,” Charley answered.

”You're going back to bed and stay there until that wound is completely healed,” declared Walter as he put his arm around his chum and a.s.sisted him out of the chapel.

Before he could get the exhausted lad to the hut, he had become a dead weight in Walter's arms. Walter let him down gently upon the ground and ran to the hut where he aroused Chris and the captain, and the three bore Charley inside and laid him on his couch.

Captain Westfield bathed the wound and bandaged it afresh. His face was very grave as he examined the unconscious lad's skin and pulse.

”He has a high fever,” he declared anxiously. ”I thought yesterday from the way he was yawning and stretching that he was in for an attack of swamp fever. With a dose of it on top of this hole in his leg it is likely to go hard with the poor lad. I'd give a sight now for some brandy and quinine.” He glanced up at Walter's haggard face. ”You get to bed this minute or we will have two on our hands,” he commanded.

”Chris and I have had a good nap and we'll keep watch the balance of the night, though, I 'low, there ain't much use in doing it.”

Walter was too near collapse, himself, to offer objections and dropping down on his couch was soon sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. He woke again just as the sun arose feeling rested and quite his old vigorous self, but his spirits soon fell as his chum's meanings fell upon his ears.

Charley was tossing restfully upon his couch in a high fever and the wounded leg was greatly swollen and flushed an angry red.

There was nothing he could do to relieve the sufferer, so Walter with a heavy heart stole out of the hut.

The captain and Chris were busy over the fire preparing breakfast.

They greeted Walter with grave faces for Charley's condition was resting heavily upon them.

”If I only had some quinine I could check that fever,” sighed the old sailor. ”He is healthy and clean-blooded and I reckon he'd get over that bad leg in time, but he can't fight them both. How in the world did he come to start the wound to bleeding again?”

Sadly Walter recounted the adventures of the night. He told of their previous discovery of the bell, their first fruitless search of the chapel, and of his venturing in alone and the shooting of the bell-ringer.

As he proceeded with his narrative the captain's face grew crimson with mortification and chagrin, as he saw his much-a.s.serted ghostly theories shattered.

The effect on Chris' humorous nature was different. The first expression of relief on his little ebony face was succeeded by a broad grin.

”Golly,” he giggled, ”an' me an' Ma.s.sa Capt was scart nigh to death by a poor ole harmless monkey.”

Few men like to be placed in a ridiculous position and the captain turned on the little darky in a rage.

”Shut up, you grinning little imp,” he shouted, ”or I'll thrash you so you can't sit down for a week. What call have you got to be giggling over the death of one of your ancestors?”

Chris checked the flow of words on his tongue, but sat rocking back and forth in glee muttering, ”Golly, only a monkey. A poor, old, he-monkey,” until the irate captain chased him out of ear-shot.

Leaving the captain and Chris to the settlement of their trouble, Walter took one of the canoes' paddles and proceeded to the chapel.