“But I sat for every one of those pictures,” despondently; the hope which he had cherished dying within his heart.
“Oh, stuff, nonsense!” scornfully ejaculated Mr. Hurd. Christopher’s head fell forward on his breast; he looked the picture of despair. His clothing hung loosely upon his long, gaunt limbs; his hands, much too large for the bony wrists, dropped nervelessly at his side; his lifeless eyes, his hollow cheeks, looked as though the great Conqueror had already claimed him, while still permitting him to roam the earth for some inscrutable purpose.
Mr. Hurd, having little sentiment, thought only of his annoyance. “Will you please remove that litter from the desk,” he said.
Christopher made one more appeal: “Will you write to Professor Blank, and find whether these pictures were taken from my sittings?” he asked supplicatingly.
“I will not be bothered with it, I tell you; write for yourself,” he answered roughly.
“I will,” said Christopher, with vexed decision, then occurred to him the thought; Professor Blank knew him as Smith only. He gathered the photographs up hastily, and rushed out of the house. “I’ve a notion to drown my fool self! Oh, what shall I do! Was ever any one in such a predicament!” he cried aloud. Everyone turned to look at him as he ran past them.
“Hello, Smith! Where are you going in such a rush? What is the matter with you?” cried a familiar voice in his very ear.
Christopher gave a great shout; then began to cry like a veritable baby, as he grasped the professor’s hands. “I was going to drown myself; you have saved my life,” and he fairly blubbered.
“Smith, you are as crazy as you are bald-headed,” laughingly said the professor.
“Don’t call me Smith! My name is Christopher Hembold,” he said excitedly.