Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Own Company; Or, Barnstorming in the Middle West онлайн

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"Yes, you are in time," he said, and his voice was hollow and faint with a ghostly sound. "In time to see the end."

"He's dying!"

Merry did not utter the words aloud. Quickly, with light steps, he approached the bed.

"Young man," said that weary voice, "bend down—sit beside me."

Merry took the chair at the bedside, the doctor stepping back, but remaining near and watching the sinking man intently.

The pallor on Zolverein's face became even more marked, as if his few words had cost him too great an effort. His eyes left Merriwell and found the doctor.

"Brandy!" he whispered, pleadingly. "Something to give me a few minutes more of life!"

The doctor hastily mixed something in a glass and held it to the dying man's lips. The small quantity Zolverein was able to swallow seemed to bring a bit of brightness to his dimming eyes.

"There," he whispered, "that will do it."

The doctor straightened up, but not till he had breathed in Frank's ear:

"If there is anything you wish to hear from him, make haste. He has not many seconds more."