“Rest?” said Duncan. “I hope you can. I’m afraid I shall get very little rest to-night.”
Nor was Lynch to experience any genuine refreshing rest. In his room, with the door locked, he paced the floor for hours, pausing at intervals to listen, with shuddering heart, to every faint sound of the night. His face was drawn and lined like a graven mask. His eyes rolled restlessly in their sockets. The passing footsteps of a night watchman caused him to stand with quivering hand pressed to his bosom, his jaw drooping, his breath suspended, waiting, waiting—for what?
He had closed his window and drawn the shade so that not even a crack remained at the bottom. Even though every light in the room was at full blast, he whirled now and then to peer nervously into the corners and behind the morris chair. The sudden scampering of a mouse somewhere in the wall dropped him nerveless upon the couch, where he sat mopping the beads of cold perspiration from his face. Once as he walked the length of the room he caught a glimpse of a phantomlike figure which gave him a sidelong leap and brought a gasping “Ah!” from his lips. Half crouching and staring across his shoulder, he realized that the thing he had seen was his own reflection in a mirror.
“Fool! fool!” he huskily whispered. “Why don’t you go to bed? Are you trying to wear your own nerves to a frazzle? What a coward you are, Mike Lynch! If your friends knew, they’d be disgusted with you. You didn’t mean to drown the poor devil when you suggested that Berger should run down that cockle shell of a rowboat. It was an accident—I say it was an accident. You can’t make anything else of it. No one can make anything else of it. Even if they prove we smashed the boat intentionally, we can swear we meant it for a joke. What if they do say it was a crazy, foolhardy joke? We’ll stick to it that there was no malice in it. That ought to save us. Perhaps we may have to leave college, but I don’t see how anything worse is going to happen.
“But Merriwell’s friends will know it was not meant for a joke. They’ll swear it was malicious. They’ll swear it isn’t the first time I’ve tried to injure him. The fact that there was bad blood between us is going to make it rather unpleasant for me. But I’m not alone in this. Ditson is as deep in the mud as I am in the mire. Du Boise—I’m sorry we had him with us. He’s the fellow I fear. Unsupported by either drink or drug, Du Boise is a shivering, weak-kneed, spineless creature. There’s no reliance to be placed upon him. But I don’t believe even he is fool enough to think we intended to drown Merriwell. I’m going to bed now. I’ve got to go to bed. Why, I’ll be a wreck in the morning if I don’t get a little sleep.”
But there was no sleep for Mike. He dared not turn off his lights, and when he attempted to woo slumber with them blazing at full blast he soon found his efforts vain. Groaning and cursing, he tossed to and fro upon the bed. Gradually the ticking of his little clock beat in his ears louder and louder until it sounded like hammer-strokes upon an anvil. Whenever he closed his eyes a ghastly white face seemed to rise before him, and he fancied he beheld an outstretched accusing finger pointing at him.
Finally in despair he rose, drew his bathrobe about him, and sat down near the study table. Seizing a novel, he tried to read. The sentences ran into a meaningless jumble before his eyes, and his tortured mind continued to wander to the thing he longed to forget. Repeatedly he started up and turned to look behind him, shuddering and cold with the conviction that some ghostly thing was hovering at the back of his chair.
And thus the long night passed. Between three and four o’clock in the morning Lynch opened his window and waited for dawn. He joyously hailed the first faint streaks of gray in the eastern sky.
“It’s morning,” he said. “Now perhaps I can sleep.”
But no, even daylight could not bring him rest. The sun was tinting the east with a delicate blush when Mike slipped downstairs and hurried away, filling his lungs with long, deep breaths. The streets were silent and deserted. Not even a policeman seemed stirring at this hour, for which he was sincerely thankful. Without knowing whither he was bound, he turned his face toward the outskirts of the city and with long strides made for the open country.