"I noticed it meself," said Cassidy.
"Clogged me throat up fur fair," continued the expressman huskily.
"Pay the men liberally and let them be on their way," said Balthasar.
Bean pressed money upon both and they departed.
"You couldn't get me to do it again for twice the money," said
Balthasar; "the nervous strain I've been under. A custom-house detective
was on our trail, but one of my men took care of him--at a dark corner."
Bean shuddered.
"They didn't--"
"Oh, nothing serious. He'll be as well as ever in a few days. Got a
hatchet." He gestured significantly toward the crate.
But this was too precipitate for Bean. He could not disinter himself--it
seemed like that--under the eyes of Balthasar.
"Not now! Not now! You've done your part--here!" He passed Balthasar the
check he had written earlier in the evening.
"I'll leave you, then," said the professor. "But one thing, don't handle
it much. It might disintegrate. I bid you farewell, my young friend."
Bean, at the door, listened to his descending steps. The professor was
whistling. He recognized the air, "Call Me Up Some Rainy Afternoon." It
was a lively air and the professor rendered it ably but quite softly.
The door locked, he was back staring at the crate that concealed his
dead self. He was helpless before it. The fleshly tenement of a great
king who had later flashed upon the world as Napoleon I, and was now
Bunker Bean! Could he bear to look? He trembled and knew himself weak.
Pages:
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146