Nat Parker, found me, took charge of me and did not leave me until I was out of danger.  Of course, there was no way to reward him—­you can merely stammer your gratitude to the man who has saved your life.  He told me that the time might come when I could do him a good turn.  Well, I met him the other day in New Orleans, and I incidentally spoke of my intention to sell my paper.  He said that he would buy it.  I told him that I would make him a present of it, but he resentfully replied that he was not a beggar.  I came back with him to Chicago, and afraid that any interference might offend him, I told you that you should have nothing to do with the transaction.  He has an ambition to become known as a newspaper man, and he foolishly believes that I am a great journalist.  So he declares that for three months he must serve under me.  What could I say?  Could I tell him that I would dispose of the paper to some one else?  I was compelled to accept his terms.  I insisted that he should live with us during the time, but he objected.  He swore that he must not be introduced to any of my people—­to be petted like a dog that has saved a child’s life.  And there’s the situation.”

Witherspoon’s cigar had fallen to the floor.  Some time elapsed before he spoke, and when he did speak there was an unnatural softness in his voice.  “Strange story,” he said.  “No wonder you are peculiar when you have been thrown among such peculiar people.  If your friend were a sane man, we could deal with him in a sensible manner, but as he is not we must let him have his way.  But suppose that at the end of three months he is tired of the paper?”

“I will sell it or give it away.  But there’ll be no trouble about that.  It’s a valuable piece of property, and I will swear to you that if at the end of that time Henry Witherspoon does not go into the Colossus with his father, it will be the father who keeps him out.  Now promise me that you won’t worry.”

Witherspoon got up and took Henry’s hand.  “You have done the best you could, my son.  It is peculiar and unbusinesslike, but we can’t help that.”

“Will you explain to mother?”

“Yes, but the more I look at it the stranger it seems.  I don’t know, however, that it is so strange after all.  He is simply a chivalrous crank of the South, and we must humor him.  But I’ll be glad when all this nonsense is over.”

DeGolyer sat in his room, smoking his pipe.  He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and said:  “Oh, what a liar you are!  But your day for truth is coming.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE TIME WAS DRAWING NEAR.

One morning, when DeGolyer called at the hospital, young Witherspoon said to him:  “You are Hank, and I’m Henry.”  And this was the first indication that his mind was regaining its health.

Every day George Witherspoon would ask:  “Well, how’s your peculiar friend getting along?” And one evening, when he made this inquiry, DeGolyer answered:  “He is so much pleased that he doesn’t think it will take him quite three months to decide.”