“As I obsarbed dat wouldn’t make no diff’rence, ’cause dey doan’ hab nuffin to do wid me. It mought be anoder thing if Mr. Hartley lit on me wid a cartwhip, but he’ll neber come way up here fur me, ’cause he doan’ know I’m here,—likewise Harv and his folks doan’ know nuffin ’bout it neither. No matter where yo’ stow me away Perfesser, I’ll stay dere till yo’ am ready to come fur me.”
The man looked at Bunk with a prolonged, penetrating stare that chilled him through. Then in his cavernous voice he slowly said:
“When-you-disobey-me, you-will-die!”
“Yas, sir;” whispered the terrified youth.
The Professor stepped to the bench at his side, reached up and took a bottle of colorless liquid from a shelf. Withdrawing the glass stopper he handed it to the lad:
“Smell of that!” he commanded in the same awful tones.
Bunk’s hand trembled so much that he came near dropping it.
“It won’t blow me up?” he asked timidly.
“It won’t hurt you! Do what you are told!”
The lad dared not hesitate. He held the compound to his nostrils and took several deep inhalations. It was a powerful soporific and in a minute or so he showed its effects. The Professor watched him, and at the proper moment took the bottle from his limp grasp.