Part 18 (1/2)

”Some fool notion, I s'pose,” said Mr. Bronson, rising. ”But go ahead if you're careful about handlin' the strychnine.”

Newton spent the time from twelve-thirty to half after two in watching the clock; and twenty minutes to three found him seated in the woodshed with a pen-knife in his hand, a small vial of strychnine crystals on a stand before him, a saucer of raisins at his right hand, and one exactly like it, partially filled with gopher bait--by which is meant raisins under the skin of each of which a minute crystal of strychnine had been inserted on the point of the knife. Newton was apparently happy and was whistling _The Glow-Worm_. It was a lovely scene if one can forget the gopher's point of view.

At three-thirty, Newton went into the house and lay down on the horsehair sofa, saying to his mother that he felt kind o' funny and thought he'd lie down a while. At three-forty he heard his father's voice in the kitchen and knew that his sire was preparing to start for the scene of battle between Colonel Woodruff and Con Bonner, on the result of which hinged the future of Jim Irwin and the Woodruff school.

A groan issued from Newton's lips--a gruesome groan as of the painful death of a person very sensitive to physical suffering. But his father's voice from the kitchen door betrayed no agitation. He was scolding the horses as they stood tied to the hitching-post, in tones that showed no knowledge of his son's distressed moans.

”What's the matter?”

It was Newton's little sister who asked the question, her facial expression evincing appreciation of Newton's efforts in the line of groans, somewhat touched with awe. Even though regarded as a pure matter of make-believe, such sounds were terrible.

”Oh, sister, sister!” howled Newton, ”run and tell 'em that brother's dying!”

f.a.n.n.y disappeared in a manner which expressed her balanced feelings--she felt that her brother was making believe, but she believed for all that, that something awful was the matter. So she went rather slowly to the kitchen door, and casually remarked that Newton was dying on the sofa in the sitting-room.

”You little fraud!” said her father.

”Why, f.a.n.n.y!” said her mother--and ran into the sitting-room--whence in a moment, with a cry that was almost a scream, she summoned her husband, who responded at the top of his speed.

Newton was groaning and in convulsions. Horrible grimaces contorted his face, his jaws were set, his arms and legs drawn up, and his muscles tense.

”What's the matter?” His father's voice was stern as well as full of anxiety. ”What's the matter, boy?”

”Oh!” cried Newton. ”Oh! Oh! Oh!”

”Newtie, Newtie!” cried his mother, ”where are you in pain? Tell mother, Newtie!”

”Oh,” groaned Newtie, relaxing, ”I feel awful!”

”What you been eating?” interrogated his father.

”Nothing,” replied Newton.

”I saw you eatin' dinner,” said his father.

Again Newton was convulsed by strong spasms, and again his groans filled the hearts of his parents with terror.

”That's all I've eaten,” said he, when his spasms had pa.s.sed, ”except a few raisins. I was putting strychnine in 'em----”

”Oh, heavens!” cried his mother. ”He's poisoned! Drive for the doctor, Ezra! Drive!”

Mr. Bronson forgot all about the election--forgot everything save antidotes and speed. He leaped toward the door. As he pa.s.sed out, he shouted ”Give him an emetic!” He tore the hitching straps from the posts, jumped into the buggy and headed for the road. Skilfully avoiding an overturn as he rounded into the highway, he gave the spirited horses their heads, and fled toward town, carefully computing the speed the horses could make and still be able to return. Mile after mile he covered, pa.s.sing teams, keeping ahead of automobiles and advertising panic. Just at the town limits, he met the doctor in Sheriff Dilly's automobile, the sheriff himself at the steering wheel. Mr. Bronson signaled them to stop, ignoring the fact that they were making similar signs to him.

”We're just starting for your place,” said the doctor. ”Your wife got me on the phone.”

”Thank G.o.d!” replied Bronson. ”Don't fool any time away on me. Drive!”

”Get in here, Ez,” said the sheriff. ”Doc knows how to drive, and I'll come on with your team. They need a slow drive to cool 'em off.”

”Why didn't you phone me?” asked the doctor.