FullReads

“Did you recover the knife?” asked Parton. “It must have been a mighty sharp one, and rather larger than most people carry about with them on excursions like yours.”

“I am not on the witness-stand, sir,” returned the other, somewhat petulantly, “and so I fail to see why you should question me so closely in regard to so simple a matter–as though you suspected me of some wrongdoing.”

“My friend is a doctor,” I explained; for while I was quite as much interested in the incident, its whys and wherefores, as was Parton, I had myself noticed that he was suspicious of his chance patient, and seemingly not so sympathetic as he would otherwise have been. “He regards you as a case.”

“Not at all,” returned Parton. “I am simply interested to know how you hurt yourself–that is all. I mean no offence, I am sure, and if anything I have said has hurt your feelings I apologize.”

“Don’t mention it, doctor,” replied the other, with an uneasy smile, holding his left hand out towards Parton as he spoke. “I am in great pain, as you know, and perhaps I seem irritable. I’m not an amiable man at best; as for the knife, in my agony I never thought to look for it again, though I suppose if I had looked I should not have found it, since it doubtless fell into the underbrush out of sight. Let it rest there. It has not done me a friendly service to-day and I shall waste no tears over it.”

With which effort at pleasantry he rose with some difficulty to his feet, and with the assistance of Parton and myself walked on and into Keswick, where we stopped for the night. The stranger registered directly ahead of Parton and myself, writing the words, “Carleton Barker, Calcutta,” in the book, and immediately retired to his room, nor did we see him again that night. After supper we looked for him, but as he was nowhere to be seen, we concluded that he had gone to bed to seek the recuperation of rest. Parton and I lit our cigars and, though somewhat fatigued by our exertions, strolled quietly about the more or less somnolent burg in which we were, discussing the events of the day, and chiefly our new acquaintance.

“I don’t half like that fellow,” said Parton, with a dubious shake of the head. “If a dead body should turn up near or on Skiddaw to-morrow morning, I wouldn’t like to wager that Mr. Carleton Barker hadn’t put it there. He acted to me like a man who had something to conceal, and if I could have done it without seeming ungracious, I’d have flung his old flask as far into the fields as I could. I’ve half a mind to show my contempt for it now by filling it with some of that beastly claret they have at the table d’hote here, and chucking the whole thing into the lake. It was an insult to offer those things to us.”

“I think you are unjust, Parton,” I said. “He certainly did look as if he had been in a maul with somebody. There was a nasty scratch on his face, and that cut on the arm was suspicious; but I can’t see but that his explanation was clear enough. Your manner was too irritating. I think if I had met with an accident and was assisted by an utter stranger who, after placing me under obligations to him, acted towards me as though I were an unconvicted criminal, I’d be as mad as he was; and as for the insult of his offering, in my eyes that was the only way he could soothe his injured feelings. He was angry at your suspicions, and to be entirely your debtor for services didn’t please him. His gift to me was made simply because he did not wish to pay you in substance and me in thanks.”