The Nine O'Clock Bottle
The cheer which greeted this announcement surprised me by its feebleness. I had felt that I was doing rather well. Plainly a number of voices were silent. Puzzled and apprehensive I glanced toward my men. Warburton Plock, oily and deferential, stood slightly in advance of the others.
"Have you read your orders?" he asked.
"My orders?" I replied,—"my orders from whom?"
"Your sealed orders," he repeated, smiling craftily, "the ones Waxman handed you when we left."
I did not like his tone. I detested the familiar way in which he spoke of the aged president of the Explorers Union. His manner was that of veiled bravado. The air was highly charged as before a coming storm.
"My brief-case ... cabin ... Swank.... Fetch."
I was excited and spoke monosyllabically, but Swank, like a faithful dog, disappeared at the word "fetch" down the companion-way. In the interval of his absence a thousand black thoughts whirled through my brain. These mysterious orders, what were they? A plot ... something was afoot, some deadly blow aimed to dash the cup of accomplishment from my grasp as I raised it to my lips. To my credit I can say that, even in this agonizing moment, I absolved Dr. Waxman of any share in this dastardly work. I seemed to see his benevolent sheep-like face smiling a good-bye, while before me, glowered Plock, palpably gloating at my discomfiture. But orders were orders and duty was duty. Traprock must be true! With a hand that trembled in spite of my best efforts, I grasped the brief-case which Swank proffered and, turning it so that all might see, I opened it.
It was empty!