The Seventh Noon   By: Frederick Orin Bartlett (1876-1945)

THE SEVENTH NOON

BY

FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT

Author of "The Web of the Golden Spider", "Joan of the Alley," etc.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

EDMUND FREDERICK

BOSTON

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1910

By Small, Maynard & Company

(INCORPORATED)

Entered at Stationers' Hall

Two editions before publication, January, 1910

To

K. P. B. and K. J. B.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I THE BLACK DOG II KING OF TO DAY III THE BEGINNING OF THE END IV KISMET V THE INNER WOODS VI THE SHADOW ON THE PORTRAITS VII THE ARSDALES VIII THE MAN WHO KNEW IX DAWN X OUTSIDE THE HEDGE XI A PARTING AND A MEETING XII DISTRICT MESSENGER 3457 XIII THE SLEEPERS XIV CONSEQUENCES XV THE DERELICT XVI THE FOURTH DAY XVII AN INTERLUDE XVIII THE MAKING OF A MAN XIX A MIRACLE XX A LONG NIGHT XXI FACING THE SUN XXII CLOUDS XXIII WHEN THE DEAD AWAKE XXIV THE GREATER MASTER XXV THE SHADOW ON THE FLOOR XXVI ON THE BRINK XXVII THE END OF THE BEGINNING XXVIII THE SEVENTH NOON

ILLUSTRATIONS

"Spring," she answered. "Just spring" . . . Frontispiece

"What, you, Miss Arsdale?"

As he studied her it seemed certain that she was by no means enjoying herself in her present company

Facing her he faced the pendulum which ticked out to him the cost of each new picture he had of her

He lowered the rails, and Miss Arsdale led the way

"The kid," he announced laconically. "What yuh think of him?"

At noon! At the seventh noon, the whistle was to blow!

The Seventh Noon

CHAPTER I

The Black Dog

"The right to die?"

Professor Barstow, with a perplexed scowl ruffling the barbette of gray hairs above his keen eyes, shook his head and turning from the young man whose long legs extended over the end of the lean sofa upon which he sprawled in one corner of the laboratory, held the test tube, which he had been studying abstractedly, up to the light. The flickering gas was not good for delicate work, and it was only lately that Barstow, spurred on by a glimpse of the end to a long series of experiments, had attempted anything after dark. He squinted thoughtfully at the yellow fluid in the tube and then, resuming his discussion, declared emphatically,

"We have no such right, Peter! You 're wrong. I don't know where, because you put it too cleverly for me. But I know you 're dead wrong even if your confounded old theories are right, even if your deductions are sound. You 're wrong where you bring up."

"Man dear," answered the other gently, "you are too good a scientist to reason so. That is purely feminine logic."

"I am too good a scientist to believe that anything so complex as human life was meant to be wasted in a scheme where not so much as an atom is lost. Bah, your liver is asleep! Too much work too much work! The black dog has pounced upon your shoulders!"

"I never had an attack of the blues or anything similar in my life, Barstow," Donaldson denied quietly. "You 'll propose smelling salts next."

"Then what the devil does ail you?"

"Nothing ails me. Can't a man have a few theories without the aid of liver complaint?"

"Not that kind. They don't go with a sound constitution. When a man begins to talk of finding no use for life, he 's either a coward or sick. And I know you 're not a coward, Peter."

The man on the couch turned uneasily.

"Nor sick either. You are as stubborn and narrow as an old woman, Barstow," he complained.