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

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His voice died in a gasping rattle, his breast heaved once and was still, his eyes were set, and the end had come.

Zolverein, the magician, had solved the great mystery.

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It was Frank who carried the report of the magician's death to Thaddeus Burnham.

The manager looked disgusted.

"Why couldn't the fellow have waited till to-morrow!" he exclaimed. "Got the best house of the year. People will be terribly disappointed. It's so much cold cash out of my pocket."

"Death is something that cannot be postponed," said Frank. "When a man's time comes, he has to go."

"Now I must go in there and announce that there will be no performance," growled Burnham. "If there was somebody to take Zolverein's place——"

"Let me take his place."

"You?"

Burnham stared. Then he grinned in a sickly manner.

"What sort of a joke are you cracking?" he asked, harshly.

"No joke," assured Frank. "I am in earnest. I'd like to take his place."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"Why, you're no magician."