The writing was pencil script, done in a poor hand and ill-spelled,
but still English. Chick read:
"Be of good cheer; there ain't a one in this world that can top a
lad from Frisco. And it's Pat MacPherson that says it. Yer the
finest laddie that ever got beyond the old Witch of Endor. You and
me, if we hold on, is just about goin' to play hell with the
haythen. Hold on and fight like the divil! Remember that Pat is
with ye!
"We're both spooks.
"PAT MACPHERSON"
Said Watson: "Who gave you this? Did you see the man?"
"It was sent up my lord. The man was a high Bar in the Senestro's
guard."
Watson could not understand this. Was it possible that there were
others in this mysterious region besides himself? At any rate, he
wasn't wholly alone. He felt that he could count upon the
Irishman--or was this fellow Scotch? Anyhow, such a man would find
the quick means of wit at a crucial moment.
Suddenly Watson noted a queer feeling of emptiness. He looked out
of the window. The music had ceased, and the incessant hum of the
throngs had deadened to silence. It was suspended, awesome,
threatening. At the same time, the Jan Lucar came to attention, at
the opposite door stood the Rhamda Geos, black clad, surrounded by
a group of his fellows.
"Come, my lord," he said.
The crimson guard fell in behind Watson, the black-gowned took
their places ahead, and the Jan Lucar and the Geos walked on
either side.
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