“This Belmont must be a human brute!” cried Merriwell, in anger. “He deserves to be broken on the wheel!”
“He is a brute!” weakly cried the boy. “He killed my mother—my dear, sweet mother! Oh, she was so good, and so beautiful! She loved us so—Milly and me! Listen, my dear friend,” and the the boy drew Frank closer. “I—I think he—poisoned her!”
These words were whispered in a tone of such horror and grief that the soul of the listening lad was made to quiver like the vibrating strings of a violin when touched by the bow.
“You mustn’t think about that now,” said Frank, soothingly. “It will hurt you to think about it.”
“But I must, for, do you know, dear friend, I feel sure I shall not have long to think of it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Merry, with a chill.
“Something—something tells me the end is near. Apollo, he hurt me—here.”
The boy pressed one hand to his breast and coughed again.
“You are excited—you are frightened,” declared Frank. “You will be all right in the morning. The doctor will fix you up all right. You shall have the very best food you can eat, and I’ll see that you receive the tenderest care.”
The eyes of the lad on the bed filled with tears and his lips quivered, while he gazed at Frank with a look of love.