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Updated: June 2, 2025
Bertie quavered. "Poison," was the answer. "That cook will be hanged yet." "That's the way the bookkeeper went out at Cape March," Brown spoke up. "Died horribly. They said on the Jessie that they heard him screaming three miles away." "I'll put the cook in irons," sputtered Harriwell. "Fortunately we discovered it in time." Bertie sat paralyzed. There was no color in his face.
"Sit up and take notice," interrupted Nat, for he could not help making light of the troubles with which he felt the girls were too heavily burdened. "Exactly that," agreed the doctor. "Miss Harriwell could not have fallen into better hands. I will, however, see her safely into the boat." It was a delightful task to assist the sick girl, realizing what it would mean ultimately.
Brown is my assistant," explained Mr. Harriwell. "And now let's have that drink." "But where'd he get that Snider?" Mr. Brown insisted. "I always objected to keeping those guns on the premises?" "They're still there," Mr. Harriwell said, with a show of heat. Mr. Brown smiled incredulously. "Come along and see," said the manager. Bertie joined the procession into the office, where Mr.
Above the scattering of Sniders could be heard the pumping of Brown's and McTavish's Winchesters all against a background of demoniacal screeching and yelling. "They've got them on the run," Harriwell remarked, as voices and gunshots faded away in the distance. Scarcely were Brown and McTavish back at the table when the latter reconnoitered. "They've got dynamite," he said.
Harriwell, who, with Mrs. Markin, was enjoying the afternoon on the porch within hearing distance, "what would have happened if Dorothy had not been mistaken for Molly. It was a lucky mistake." But Dorothy insisted she had done nothing extraordinary. Yet she could not help but wonder what would happen next.
"What I contended all along the house-boys are not to be trusted." "It does look serious," Harriwell admitted, "but we'll come through it all right. What the sanguinary niggers need is a shaking up. Will you gentlemen please bring your rifles to dinner, and will you, Mr. Brown, kindly prepare forty or fifty sticks of dynamite. Make the fuses good and short. We'll give them a lesson.
Two sharp reports of a rifle from without, interrupted the discourse, and Brown, entering, reloaded his rifle and sat down to table. "The cook's dead," he said. "Fever. A rather sudden attack." "I was just telling Mr. Arkwright that there are no antidotes for native poisons " "Except gin," said Brown. Harriwell called himself an absent-minded idiot and rushed for the gin bottle.
The station agent at Lexington tells a story about a girl coming to him and staying in the station alone all night. But he declares she had dark hair and brown eyes, while Mary Harriwell is a blonde. Others about the station agree with him. That girl left for the Junction night before last, and was not picked up dead or alive since.
"Neat, man, neat," he warned Bertie, who gulped down a tumbler two-thirds full of the raw spirits, and coughed and choked from the angry bite of it till the tears ran down his cheeks. Harriwell took his pulse and temperature, made a show of looking out for him, and doubted that the omelet had been poisoned. Brown and McTavish also doubted; but Bertie discerned an insincere ring in their voices.
Harriwell, manager of Reminge Plantation. Both suggestions were similar in tenor, namely, to give Mr. Bertram Arkwright an insight into the rawness and redness of life in the Solomons. Also, it is whispered that Captain Malu mentioned that a case of Scotch would be coincidental with any particularly gorgeous insight Mr. Arkwright might receive............. "Yes, Swartz always was too pig-headed.
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