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"A gentleman at this time o' night!" The tone was purely incredulous. "Yes; a close friend of Mr. Slack's," assured Mr. Leary, striving to put stress of urgency into his accents, and only succeeding in imparting an added hoarseness to his fast-failing vocal cords. "I'm his law partner, in fact. I must see him at once, please it's very important, very pressing indeed."
Pawing a path through the encompassing darkness, stumbling into and over various sharp-cornered objects, barking his limbs with contusions and knowing it not, he found the door of the inner room Bob Slack's bedroom and once within that sanctuary he, feeling along the walls, discovered a push bulb and switched on the electric lights.
"Anyhow they paid for their license all right, and they sold a powerful lot o' Dr. Slack's Pain Killer. Then they went on out of town. That's all I know. Well, you don't need a license from me; so go ahead, folks!" He waved good-bye to them as they went off again. Bunny and Sue were eager to ask questions about the colored boy who played the banjo for the medical show.
All of them promised, and Katy produced it from her pocket. It began thus: "March 12. Have resolved to keep a jurnal. March 13. Had rost befe for diner, and cabage, and potato and appel sawse, and rice puding. I do not like rice puding when it is like ours. Charley Slack's kind is rele good. Mush and sirup for tea. March 19. Forgit what did. John and me saved our pie to take to schule. March 21.
Who were those married friends of Slack's, who lived on the third floor friends with whom once upon a time he and Slack had shared a chafing-dish supper? What was the name? Brady? No, Braydon. That was it Mr. and Mrs. Edward Braydon. He would slip back again, on noiseless feet, to the doorway where the bells were.
Its composition is so peculiar that it is difficult to tell what part of the statement is Slack's or Kelly's and what is Colonel Smith's, and therefore I do not know whom to hold responsible for the misstatements contained in it. "Mr.
Since Bob Slack's bachelor quarters were on the topmost floor Bob Slack's push button would be the next to the lowermost of the battery of buttons. A chilled tremulous finger found that particular button and pressed it long and hard, released it, pressed it again and yet again.
Slack's face of honest concern and sympathy showed her innocence in the matter. Next day there was an advertisement put in the paper, for the family concluded Grandma must have dropped her money in the street going to the station, but the advertisement proved as fruitless as the search, and for once in her life the dear old lady was downcast enough.
With searches into closets and close scrutiny of all dark corners passed en route, the procession advanced to the top floor, mainly guided in its oncoming by the clew deduced from the circumstances of the mad intruder having betrayed a desire to secure access to Mr. Slack's apartment, with the intention, as the caretaker more than once suggested on her way up, of murdering Mr. Slack in his bed.
Up the one remaining flight of stairs darted the intruder. He flung himself with all his weight and all his force against Bob Slack's door. It wheezed from the impact, but its stout oaken panels held fast. Who says the impossible is really impossible? The accumulated testimony of the ages shows that given the emergency a man can do anything he just naturally has to do.
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