Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Prosperity; or, Toil Has Its Reward онлайн

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He took his key and went up to his room.

“I must have a chance to think,” he decided. “I must conclude what to do.”

He closed the door of his room, and then he noticed a sheet of paper, covered with writing, lying on the table. Hastily he caught it up.

“From Bart!” he breathed. “Wonder what this will tell me.”

His eyes ran over the written lines hurriedly, and this is what he read:

“Frank: It’s no use—I quit! I suppose you will say it is a mean trick for me to leave you this way, but I don’t care if you do! It’s my nature cropping out. I think the devil is in me. I have taken all the money I need, and it will be useless for you to attempt to follow me up. You may as well let me go this time. I take the money in place of my salary, which you have not yet paid me. Hodge.”

Frank stood there, staring at the paper—staring, staring. The words ran together and danced before him. Something was tugging at his heart.

“Poor Hodge!” he murmured. “He cannot conquer himself.”

Then he crushed the paper and threw it on the floor.