CHAPTER XVIII
He strove with such intense effort to halt his turning thoughts that he became feverish. His intelligence swiftly shaped decisions, but greed smashed them. "More, more, more!" When his thought mounted to a sum fantastically large Spike became calm again. "Now, in a second," he would whisper to himself, "I'll decide. Any respectable sum will do.... Better a little hundred thousand than nothing.... That is to say five hundred thousand—or—at—most—a—million—or—" And up it shot again. No matter what amount he finally chose, he would forever regret he had not taken more!
He jeered at himself, remembering that there were holes in his only pair of shoes, that he had no hat, that he owed a board bill, and that he had not for weeks heard from his uncle in Waterville. Perhaps the grocery store was in bankruptcy, and there would never be another affectionate note enclosing a ten-dollar bill! Yet he could not decide whether to take one million or ten, and risked getting nothing by his indecision.
His head throbbed painfully. Why not put it off till tomorrow! Tomorrow he would have a long forenoon in which to decide, and it would be easier. This night of thinking had cleared away barriers. After he had slept on it, and the daylight returned he would even laugh, and wish in confident, simple words for a sum perfectly satisfactory.
Alas, he could not fool himself again. Tomorrow it would be even more difficult; tomorrow he might even put it off hour by hour until his time was up! Flecker knew he had made his last postponement.
The clock in the school tower struck four. It struck five. Rods of pain struck back into his brain from his eyes. He had gashed one hand with his teeth and the blood was on his pillow in a round stain.
"O God," he cried out in his delirium. "O God! I wish I were dead!" and turned the magic ring three times.
Suddenly aware, stabbed in the bowels with fear, he waited for death, his heart pounding in his ears.
This was the end, this the culmination of his life, of his long dreams, of all self-denial, all indulgence. His life was a long, winding time of waiting, expecting, hoping. Now he knew hope led to Nowhere, to Now, to Death. He remembered chopping wood for his uncle on a clear morning. The ax made a pleasant definite sound, his breath blew from his mouth like smoke; beyond the dark shed a little white tree stood. He remembered when he had typhoid and a bowl of oranges stood on his bureau. He remembered that Christmas Day he squeezed real, oil color from a tube for the first time.
His right foot was numb. This was the beginning of the end. It would spread slowly through his body. Fear swept him. He wanted to run screaming into the hall. Despair held him. What was the good? Who could help him now? He was alone, beyond help.... He could not run. There was no place to run....
The three walls of his room leaned backwards from the harsh electric light and from a strange sound that began like a smothered laugh. The bureau and the chair and the little stove listened aghast to a sound made for the ears of no one. Spike was weeping. The palms of his hands covered his streaming eyes. "Mother," he whispered, "I want my mother!"
Under the window there was a cautious scraping and a murmur like the echo of his weeping. The curtain swung forward gently and held, as if some one's head were there in the shadow, peering in.