Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (dar e dil novel online reading TXT) 📕

Engines And Of Throbbing Pulses Was Confused With The Story He Was

Writing,  And While His Mind Was Inflamed With Pictures Of Warring

Battle-Ships,  His Body Was Swept By The Fever,  Which Overran Him Like

An Army Of Tiny Mice,  Touching His Hot Skin With Cold,  Tingling Taps

Of Their Scampering Feet.

From Time To Time The Captain Stopped At The Door Of The Chart-Room

And Observed Him In Silent Admiration. To The Man Who With Difficulty

Composed A Letter To His Family,  The Fact That Channing Was Writing

Something To Be Read By Millions Of People,  And More Rapidly Than He

Could Have Spoken The Same Words,  Seemed A Superhuman Effort. He Even

Hesitated To Interrupt It By An Offer Of Food.

But The Fever Would Not Let Channing Taste Of The Food When They

Placed It At His Elbow,  And Even As He Pushed It Away,  His Mind Was

Still Fixed Upon The Paragraph Before Him. He Wrote,  Sprawling Across

The Desk,  Covering Page Upon Page With Giant Hieroglyphics,  Lighting

Cigarette After Cigarette At The End Of The Last One,  But With His

Thoughts Far Away,  And,  As He Performed The Act,  Staring

Uncomprehendingly At The Captain's Colored Calendar Pinned On The

Wall Before Him. For Many Months Later The Battle Of Santiago Was

Associated In His Mind With A Calendar For The Month Of July,

Illuminated By A Colored Picture Of Six White Kittens In A Basket.

At Three O'clock Channing Ceased Writing And Stood Up,  Shivering And

Shaking With A Violent Chill. He Cursed Himself For This Weakness,

And Called Aloud For The Captain.

"I Can't Stop Now," He Cried. He Seized The Rough Fist Of The Captain

As A Child Clings To The Hand Of His Nurse.

"Give Me Something," He Begged. "Medicine,  Quinine,  Give Me Something

To Keep My Head Straight Until It's Finished. Go,  Quick," He

Commanded. His Teeth Were Chattering,  And His Body Jerked With Sharp,

Uncontrollable Shudders. The Captain Ran,  Muttering,  To His Medicine-

Chest.

"We've Got One Drunken Man On Board," He Said To The Mate,  "And Now

We've Got A Crazy One. You Mark My Words,  He'll Go Off His Head At

Sunset."

But At Sunset Channing Called To Him And Addressed Him Sanely. He

Held In His Hand A Mass Of Papers Carefully Numbered And Arranged,

And He Gave Them Up To The Captain As Though It Hurt Him To Part With

Them.

"There's The Story," He Said. "You've Got To Do The Rest. I Can't--I-

-I'm Going To Be Very Ill." He Was Swaying As He Spoke. His Eyes

Burned With The Fever,  And His Eyelids Closed Of Themselves. He

Looked As Though He Had Been Heavily Drugged.

"You Put That On The Wire At Port Antonio," He Commanded,  Faintly;

"Pay The Tolls To Kingston. From There They Are To Send It By Way Of

Panama,  You Understand,  By The Panama Wire."

"Panama!" Gasped The Captain. "Good Lord,  That's Two Dollars A Word."

He Shook Out The Pages In His Hand Until He Found The Last One. "And

There's Sixty-Eight Pages Here," He Expostulated. "Why The Tolls Will

Be Five Thousand Dollars!" Channing Dropped Feebly To The Bench Of

The Chart-Room And Fell In A Heap,  Shivering And Trembling.

"I Guess It's Worth It," He Murmured,  Drowsily.

The Captain Was Still Staring At The Last Page.

"But--But,  Look Here," He Cried,  "You've--You've Signed Mr. Keating's

Name To It! 'James R. Keating.' You've Signed His Name To It!"

Channing Raised His Head From His Folded Arms And Stared At Him

Dully.

"You Don't Want To Get Keating In Trouble,  Do You?" He Asked With

Patience. "You Don't Want The C. P. To Know Why He Couldn't Write The

Best Story Of The War? Do You Want Him To Lose His Job? Of Course You

Don't. Well,  Then,  Let It Go As His Story. I Won't Tell,  And See You

Don't Tell,  And Keating Won't Remember."

His Head Sank Back Again Upon His Crossed Arms. "It's Not A Bad

Story," He Murmured.

But The Captain Shook His Head; His Loyalty To His Employer Was Still

Uppermost. "It Doesn't Seem Right!" He Protested. "It's A Sort Of A

Liberty,  Isn't It,  Signing Another Man's Name To It,  It's A Sort Of

Forgery."

Channing Made No Answer. His Eyes Were Shut And He Was Shivering

Violently,  Hugging Himself In His Arms.

A Quarter Of An Hour Later,  When The Captain Returned With Fresh

Quinine,  Channing Sat Upright And Saluted Him.

"Your Information,  Sir," He Said,  Addressing The Open Door Politely,

"Is Of The Greatest Value. Tell The Executive Officer To Proceed

Under Full Steam To Panama. He Will First Fire A Shot Across Her

Bows,  And Then Sink Her!" He Sprang Upright And Stood For A Moment,

Sustained By The False Strength Of The Fever. "To Panama,  You Hear

Me!" He Shouted. He Beat The Floor With His Foot. "Faster,  Faster,

Faster," He Cried. "We've Got A Great Story! We Want A Clear Wire,  We

Want The Wire Clear From Panama To City Hall. It's The Greatest Story

Ever Written--Full Of Facts,  Facts,  Facts,  Facts For The Consolidated

Press--And Keating Wrote It. I Tell You,  Keating Wrote It. I Saw Him

Write It. I Was A Stoker On The Same Ship."

The Mate And Crew Came Running Forward And Stood Gaping Stupidly

Through The Doors And Windows Of The Chart-Room. Channing Welcomed

Them Joyously,  And Then Crumpled Up In A Heap And Pitched Forward

Into The Arms Of The Captain. His Head Swung Weakly From Shoulder To

Shoulder.

"I Beg Your Pardon," He Muttered,  "I Beg Your Pardon,  Captain,  But

Your Engine-Room Is Too Hot. I'm Only A Stoker And I Know My Place,

Sir,  But I Tell You,  Your Engine-Room Is Too Hot. It's A Burning

Hell,  Sir,  It's A Hell!"

The Captain Nodded To The Crew And They Closed In On Him,  And Bore

Him,  Struggling Feebly,  To A Bunk In The Cabin Below. In The Berth

Opposite,  Keating Was Snoring Peacefully.

After The Six Weeks' Siege The Fruit Company's Doctor Told Channing

He Was Cured,  And That He Might Walk Abroad. In This First Walk He

Found That,  During His Illness,  Port Antonio Had Reverted To Her

Original Condition Of Complete Isolation From The World,  The Press-

Boats Had Left Her Wharves,  The Correspondents Had Departed From The

Veranda Of Her Only Hotel,  The War Was Over,  And The Peace

Commissioners Had Sailed For Paris. Channing Expressed His Great

Gratitude To The People Of The Hotel And To The Fruit Company's

Doctor. He Made It Clear To Them That If They Ever Hoped To Be Paid

Those Lesser Debts Than That Of Gratitude Which He Still Owed Them,

They Must Return Him To New York And Newspaper Row. It Was Either

That,  He Said,  Or,  If They Preferred,  He Would Remain And Work Out

His Indebtedness,  Checking Bunches Of Bananas At Twenty Dollars A

Month. The Fruit Company Decided It Would Be Paid More Quickly If

Channing Worked At His Own Trade,  And Accordingly Sent Him North In

One Of Its Steamers. She Landed Him In Boston,  And He Borrowed Five

Dollars From The Chief Engineer To Pay His Way To New York.

It Was Late In The Evening Of The Same Day When He Stepped Out Of The

Smoking-Car Into The Roar And Riot Of The Grand Central Station. He

Had No Baggage To Detain Him,  And,  As He Had No Money Either,  He Made

His Way To An Italian Restaurant Where He Knew They Would Trust Him

To Pay Later For What He Ate. It Was A Place Where The Newspaper Men

Were Accustomed To Meet,  Men Who Knew Him,  And Who,  Until He Found

Work,  Would Lend Him Money To Buy A Bath,  Clean Clothes,  And A Hall

Bedroom.

Norris,  The World Man,  Greeted Him As He Entered The Door Of The

Restaurant,  And Hailed Him With A Cry Of Mingled Fright And Pleasure.

"Why,  We Didn't Know But You Were Dead," He Exclaimed. "The Boys Said

When They Left Kingston You Weren't Expected To Live. Did You Ever

Get The Money And Things We Sent You By The Red Cross Boat?"

Channing Glanced At Himself And Laughed.

"Do I Look It?" He Asked. He Was Wearing The Same Clothes In Which He

Had Slept Under The Fruit-Sheds At Port Antonio. They Had Been Soaked

And Stained By The Night-Dews And By The Sweat Of The Fever.

"Well,  It's Great Luck,  Your Turning Up Here Just Now," Norris

Assured Him,  Heartily. "That Is,  If You're As Hungry As The Rest Of

The Boys Are Who Have Had The Fever. You Struck It Just Right; We're

Giving A Big Dinner Here To-Night," He Explained,  "One Of Maria's

Best. You Come In With Me. It's A Celebration For Old Keating,  A

Farewell Blow-Out."

Channing Started And Laughed.

"Keating?" He Asked. "That's Funny," He Said. "I Haven't Seen Him

Since--Since Before I Was Ill."

"Yes,  Old Jimmie Keating. You've Got Nothing Against Him,  Have You?"

Channing Shook His Head Vehemently,  And Norris Glanced Back

Complacently Toward The Door Of The Dining-Room,  From Whence Came The

Sound Of Intimate Revelry.

"You Might Have Had,  Once," Norris Said,  Laughing; "We Were All Up

Against Him Once. But Since He's Turned Out Such A Wonder And A War-

Hero,  We're Going To Recognize It. They're Always Saying We Newspaper

Men Have It In For Each Other,  And So We're Just Giving Him This

Subscription-Dinner To Show It's Not So. He's Going Abroad,  You Know.

He Sails To-Morrow Morning."

"No,  I Didn't Know," Said Channing.

"Of Course Not,  How Could You? Well,  The Consolidated Press's Sending

Him And His