“Maxwell died of dysentery.” 211
“Ah, that accounts for it. The other I gave to a sailor. He promised to deliver it.”
“To whom did you write?”
“To Dora. I asked her to go to mother and explain things, so as not to give too great a shock. You don’t mean to say that my mother doesn’t know!”
“No, of course not—not through Dora, at any rate.”
“Good heavens! Let’s get to a telegraph-office, and I’ll send her word at once. And father, too—dear old dad—he’s had two months of sorrow that might have been avoided. What a fool I was! I ought to have telegraphed from Copenhagen.”
“Copenhagen!”
“Yes; I escaped—nearly died of hunger—got on board a Danish ship as stowaway, and arrived at Copenhagen half-starved. But I wasn’t up to traveling for a bit. I’m pulling around, gradually. I’m—well, to be sure! And mother doesn’t know. What a surprise it will be! What a jollification! What a—!”
“Here, hold up, Dick—hold up, man—you’re tottering.”
The colonel’s strong hand kept Dick on his feet. He led the young man gently through the vestibule.