As she turned away, she had one doubt. Ought she not to tie up the wallet in paper? But no. No one would find it, for no one but herself went to her desk. Even supposing it were to be found, no one would look at it. Satisfied, Harriet went away.
When her father returned, he called for her. “Was n’t there something, Harriet, that you wanted to ask me?”
“Nothing now, Father,” she answered. “I 've settled it myself.”
Chapter IV
SIGNS AND WONDERS
What was that odd white thing in the air not far above the bed? A square, white thing it seemed, wavering sidewise and then back again. He frowned at it. Was it hanging from the ceiling? Ah, he saw! A stick, thrust into the bed at the foot, was holding it toward him. Yes, and there were letters on it. But frown as he would, they wavered and faded away. And so did he; he felt himself slipping away in sleep, and was very glad to go.
Later, he could not say how long, he came out of his doze, and again began to fix his attention upon the square, white thing. A kind of sign, was it? He saw it better now. Why should it be above his bed? What did it say? He looked and puzzled, and finally the letters took form:
“DON'T TRY TO GET UP.”
There were more words, but his attention wandered. The room seemed brighter now, as if the sun shone on the window, wherever the window might be. Probably at his back. That was best for sick folks.
Was he a sick folk? Why, else, was he lying on his back, with some heavy thing, doubtless a bandage, on his head? Why else was that ridiculous sign hanging over his head? What more did it say? Again he knitted his brows, and this time he read:
“IF YOU WANT ME, RING.”
If he wanted whom? Why ring? Oh, yes, if he wanted him, ring. But how?
Again he faded away into sleep, and again, after an interval, he came to himself. Once more the light was different in the room; the sun lay along the floor. It must be late afternoon. And that absurd sign was still there—“If you want me, ring.” But how could he ring? And who was this mysterious Me?
As he wondered, he became aware of a sound, which he somehow knew had been continuing from the first. It was like the noise of machinery, and yet was unlike. At any rate, it was an irregular, creaky, jumpy kind of machinery. It continued monotonously on and on; it was, he reflected, a pretty soothing kind of noise to sleep to. And then a new sound came to his ears: a cheerful and yet a thoughtful whistle. A man's whistle—a boy would not whistle so thoughtfully.
He lay and listened for a while. Now the whistle sounded, now it ceased. now it began again. Though it was a thoughtful whistle, it was a contented one; it had, moreover, something to do with the machinery. Was Me working over the machine?
Slowly there grew a desire to see this whistling person. “If you want me, ring.” But again, how ring? Around the room was nothing to be seen, no button and no bell handle. But what was that blurred thing close overhead? A good frown now, a close squint! The blurred thing took shape. It was a hanging rope.
He tried to raise a hand. It would not come. Something held it down; a weight, not a bandage. He tried to wiggle the fingers, and found that they also were held. And lift the hand he could not. Was the other hand in the same fix? He tried. Slowly the hand came up, groped, found the rope, and gripped it. He pulled. From a distance came a tinkle. The whistling ceased. Something jarred, and the machinery stopped its thudding. A voice called: “Jest a jiffy!”
(To be continued.)
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