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Doc Carson asked. "How about you, Tom?" Grove Bronson inquired. Tom smiled and shook his head. "I just like to watch you," said he. "It's your job," Doc persisted, "as long as Mr. Ellsworth is away." There was just the suggestion of an uncomfortable pause, while the scouts, or most of them, waited. For just a second even Roy became sober, looking inquiringly at Tom.
Bronson had put his hand on Hiram's shoulder, and urged him down the length of the room. They had come to a heavy portiere; Hiram thought it masked a doorway. "Here is the fellow himself," exclaimed Bronson suddenly. The curtain was whisked away. Hiram heard Lettie giggling somewhere in the folds of it.
Underneath, a telegram from Washington stated that Lawrence Blakeley, of Blakeley and McKnight, had left for Pittsburg the night before, and that, owing to the approaching trial of the Bronson case and the illness of John Gilmore, the Pittsburg millionaire, who was the chief witness for the prosecution, it was supposed that the visit was intimately concerned with the trial.
Both Lane's comrades searched his face with questioning eyes, and while Lane returned that gaze there was a little constrained silence. "Bronson examined me and said I'd live to be eighty," added Lane, with dry humor. "You're a liar!" burst out Blair. On Red Payson's worn face a faint smile appeared. "Carry on, Dare."
French Pete called for his oilskins and sou'wester, and Joe also was equipped with a spare suit. Then he and 'Frisco Kid were sent below to lash and cleat the safe in place. In the midst of this task Joe glanced at the firm-name, gilt-lettered on the face of it, and read: "Bronson & Tate." Why, that was his father and his father's partner. That was their safe, their money!
Presently he heard soft footfalls downstairs, and a low voice, as of some one humming a tune. What then had happened? As if in answer to his query there came from below a sound of heavy footfalls on a porch, the opening and closing of a door, a man's cheery voice, and then steps on the stairs. The door opened and Doctor Bronson entered. "Hello, Doc," said Lane, in a very faint voice.
But Derry was conscious, as the night wore on, and Bronson left him, and he sat alone, of more than the physical evidences of Hilda's presence; he was aware of the spiritual effect of her sojourn among them. She had stolen from them all something that was fine and beautiful. From Derry his faith in his father. From the General his constancy to his lovely wife.
"I'm Bronson. My daughter is with me. We are up here for the summer." "My name is Adams," said Lorry, shaking hands. "The ranger up here. Yes. Well, I'm glad to meet you, Adams. My daughter and I get along wonderfully, but it will be rather nice to have a neighbor. I heard you ride by, and wanted to explain about my horses." "That's all right, Mr. Bronson. Just help yourself." "Thank you.
I heard the other day she was owned by a fellow by the name of " He stopped abruptly. "I can't remember the man's name," he concluded. Hawkins knew Bronson was lying. Straightway he decided to find out what he could about the ownership of the Gray Ghost. Of the vessel herself, he had some knowledge though he gave no intimation that he had ever heard the name before.
They talked together and argued, Biddy's arm round the taller woman's waist, as Monny came straight to me, and put into my hand Anthony Fenton's pistol. "I didn't have to use it," she said. "It's all loaded and ready. And I'm going to stay here with you and Mr. Bronson, to help. What are you planning to do?" "Please run away," I said, "and take Biddy and your aunt. You must.
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