[CHAPTER VII.]
OPEN WAR.
During the few instants that it took Touchtone to quit the dining-saloon and reach the transept into which the state-room opened, a chaos of ideas surged in his head. He afterward wondered how he could even have thought of so many things in such a hurry. There are at least two ways of being frightened: one, clean out of all your wits, the other by having them tossed about like a whirlpool so that for a time you do not know what idea is uppermost.
He stopped in the dim passageway to “pull himself together.” He guessed it now—the startling truth! Since “Mr. Hilliard” was there aboard the steam-ship it was, in all probability, because he knew that they, Philip Touchtone and Gerald Saxton, were there too. And that meant that kind-hearted Mr. Hilliard, number two, the real Mr. Hilliard, had been wrong. This dogging of two defenseless lads had been for no design of mere robbery, but for some sinister end. Philip’s heart throbbed violently as the surmise came that a mysterious enemy was tracking, not simply two boys out of all the summer’s host of traveling ones in general, but Philip Touchtone and Gerald Saxton, in particular. The question was, why were they the objects of his plot, whatever it might be? And was the attack upon Gerald or himself?
He entered the state-room softly. Gerald raised himself on his elbow.
“Is that you, Philip?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” Philip answered, sitting down on the edge of the berth, and trying not to let his voice or manner hint of the trouble of his mind. “How is your head? Do you want any thing?”
“My head is ever so much better,” said Gerald, sinking back luxuriously. “I should like some ice-water, if you’ll get it, please, before long. I’d better not try to get up to-night, except to undress. Don’t you think you’d like to get to bed soon yourself?”
“Yes,” replied Philip, absently, “very soon.”