The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

Silas had gone down to the old house by the river, to see if the bed gave any signs of having been occupied, as there was a possibility that Tug had returned, and was ashamed to make his presence known, not having accomplished his purpose. But there was no sign. The dust upon everything was proof enough that the owner was still away, and Silas was preparing to blow out the light, and return to the hotel, when his friend came walking in at the door; ragged, dirty, and footsore, and a picture of poverty and woe, but there could be no doubt that it was Tug, for he carried in his right hand the old musket that had so long been his constant companion. His clothes hung in shreds about him, and bare skin appeared at his elbows and knees; his tall hat was so crumpled that it looked like a short hat, and his hair and whiskers were long and unkempt. There were bits of hay and twigs clinging to his clothing, and Silas was sure that he had been sleeping out at night, and creeping through the brush during the day.

"Tug, my old friend!" Silas said, in a voice trembling with excitement and pleasure. "God bless me; how glad I am to see you!"

Tug sat down wearily in a chair, and laid the gun down at his feet. He was certainly very tired, and very hungry, and very weak, and Silas thought how fortunate it was he had brought a lunch with him, although he had only hoped that Tug would eat it. This he placed before his friend, who pulled his chair up to the table at sight of the sandwiches, and said in a hoarse voice,—

"I've caught an awful cold somewhere. Do you starve a cold, or stuff it? I've been starving it for several days, and I think I'll try stuffing. You don't mean to tell me you have brandy in that bottle, do you?"

It was brandy fortunately, which Silas had been saving for his friend since his departure, but he seemed so tired now that he could not enjoy it with his old relish, for he did not look at it with his usual eagerness, and there was a melancholy air about him which was very distressing to the little man by his side. As Silas watched him, he thought that he discovered that he had grown a dozen years older within a month, and that he would never again be the contented, easy-going man he was before. He was a serious man now, too, a thing he had always despised, and it did not seem possible that he could ever recover from it.

When he had finished his meal, he walked slowly and painfully over to the bed, and, stretching out upon it, remained silent so long that Silas feared he had washed his voice down his throat with the brandy.

"How is Missus Pretty?" he inquired at last, turning to Silas, who sat beside him.

"Very poorly, I am sorry to say," Silas replied, in a husky voice.

This did not encourage Tug to talk, for he became silent again, and although Silas was keen to hear where his friend had been, he was silent, too.

"Have you told her that we were to blame?" Tug asked, after a long pause.