Sarah Brooks - My Fire Opal, and Other Tales

Like some dim-remembered dream, the curt, cruel words of the burglar recalled themselves to Gravesend's bewildered brain. One look into the kindly face of the officer reassured him. Feebly rising to his feet, he sank upon his trembling knees, and prayed brokenly to hear it all. He was "all right again, and wanted to know the whole truth. He could bear the very worst , and would thank him for it; indeed, sir, he would." The "very worst" was soon told.

There had been, explained the officer, on the previous night, a drunken row at a dance-house on North Street. The prisoner had, unfortunately, been concerned in the affair, and, in the temporary frenzy of intoxication, had drawn his dirk upon a woman. A young man, who had hitherto looked on, taking no part in the mêlée , now dashed in to arrest the assailant's hand, and himself received the murderous thrust. The brawlers had been duly arrested, the youth carried to the hospital, where, his wound proving mortal, he had, in half an hour, expired.

On his body a small diary had been found. It was inscribed:

"Willie Ferguson, from his mother.

Springfield, Jan. 1, 18 – ."

Will – Fergus-on, Springfield, – 18 – Will – Springfield – from – his – mother. 18 – Will, Willie, Will. Will Ferguson. He had sworn never to forget him. He is keeping his oath! Will – W-i-l-l F-e-r-g-u-s-o-n. There it is; on the walls, on the ceiling, up and down, over and across! Everywhere, everywhere, the name

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