“No, David, no; but, David, I thank you. Go, my faithful old friend, and do what I have requested.”
Chapman arose and pressed the wan hand that James Dunlap extended, then hurried from the house.
Those who saw the superintendent that day wondered why they were unable to tell whether it was grief or rage that marked the man’s face so deeply.
The message as dictated was sent that day to Haiti.
XII.
By special concession from the Haitian government, the blacks still maintaining a prejudice against white people owning real estate in Haiti, John Dunlap had purchased several acres of land lying in the outskirts of Port au Prince, and had built a commodious house thereon, constructed in accordance with the requirements of the warm climate of the island.
To-night with impatient manner he is walking up and down the veranda which surrounds the house, accompanied by Captain Jack Dunlap, to whom he says:
“I do not like the monotonous sentence that, without change, has come to me daily for two weeks past. It is not like my brother James, and something, that I cannot explain, tells me that all is not well at home in Boston.”