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

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"Young man," said the dying magician, "you did me a turn to-day—you saved me from being mangled beneath the train. It would have made but a few hours' difference, but I prefer to die here in bed. You grabbed me and held me up at the risk of being drawn down yourself. It—was—a—brave—act."

He stopped, gasping painfully.

"If you have anything in particular to say, do not talk of other things now," warned the doctor.

"All right," murmured the magician. "I understand what you mean. The end is near. I'm ready to go."

Again he looked at Frank.

"I like you," he declared. "I took a liking to you on the train. That's why I send for you. I have not a relative in the whole world that I care for. I have some friends, but they are far away. You are here. You befriended me—a stranger. My apparatus for performing my feats of magic is worth several thousand dollars. Here and now I express my desire that you shall have it when I am dead. If you sell it for what it is worth, it will—bring you in—a tidy—sum—of——"