Read Online The Shadow Portrait by Gilbert Morris - Free Book Online Page B

that get you?”
    Phil did not like to fight, but now he saw there was no way out. Without warning he suddenly moved forward, twisting his body to one side, and his right leg came up with a tremendous kick that caught the bulkiest of the men right in the face. It drove him backward, and he dropped his knife.
    Clinton could scarcely believe what he had just seen. In thedarkness Phil had moved swiftly and then the man with the knife had been suddenly driven back. Clinton had no time to think more because the thin man with the club suddenly leaped forward and brought it down with a thud on his head. Clinton tried to get his hands up and catch the first blow, but the second struck him on the side of the skull and knocked him to the ground, unconscious.
    Phil turned to face the other two, who advanced toward him, and once again his foot lashed out and caught the man with the club in the lower part of his stomach. The man fell to the ground and curled up and screamed, holding himself in a fetal position.
    The third man, shocked and astonished by seeing his two friends so easily overcome, still held the knife in his hand. Phil advanced toward him and threatened, “I’ll break your neck if you don’t get out of here! Which will it be?”
    For one moment Phil thought the man might try to attack him, but the hooligan took one look at his two friends, then swirled and scurried away into the darkness. Phil retrieved the knife that lay on the ground from the first assailant, folded it, and stuck it into his pocket. Taking the club, he jerked the thin man to his feet and said, “Do you want the police to lock you up or do you want to run?” He shoved him backward, and this man, too, disappeared. The large man scrambled to his feet, a bewildered look on his face, as if he could not understand what had happened, and then he also turned and lumbered away.
    Phil tossed the club down and knelt beside Clinton. “Are you all right, Clinton?” he asked with concern. He pulled the young man up and saw that his eyes were fluttering. “Come on. I’ll get you to a doctor.” He half picked up Clinton and got him in the buggy, and when Phil climbed into the driver’s seat, the injured man slumped over against him.
    “What’s your address, your home?” Phil asked.
    “Two . . . twenty . . . Essex Street . . . that way,” Clinton pointed with difficulty.
    Phil drove the buggy at a fast clip, wondering if he should go first to a hospital, but he did not know where one was. Besides, the young man’s family needed to know. He had to ask directions from Clinton twice more, but finally he pulled up in front of an imposing and elegant townhouse. He wrapped the lines carefully, jumped out, then ran over to pull Clinton out of the buggy. The young man was unconscious again, so Phil slung him over his shoulder and walked up the steps. He rang the door and stood there fidgeting impatiently until finally a woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door. Recognizing Clinton, she uttered a short scream.
    “He’s been hurt,” Phil said. “I need to put him in bed.”
    The young woman scurried about frantically, then ordered, “Come this way, please!”
    Phil followed the maid to a room on the second floor. By the time he had laid the young man down, the room had filled with people. There was another young man called Benjamin, a young woman called Mary Ann, and an older couple, who Phil soon learned were Clinton’s parents, Oliver and Alice Lanier. He quickly introduced himself and explained what had happened.
    Oliver looked at Phil suspiciously, then demanded, “What was he doing in that part of town?”
    “Mr. Lanier, I expect you’ll have to let him tell you when he comes around.”
    Fifty-year-old Alice Lanier, wrapped in a soft gray robe, stood by the side of the bed where Phil had laid Clinton. Her mild blue eyes were troubled, but she did turn to Phil and say, “Thank you so much for taking care of Clinton.”
    Oliver said briskly, “I’ll