Part 32 (2/2)

”I want to get out--I want to get out!” whimpered Vaniman.

Mr. Wagg nodded.

”What must I do?”

”Whack up with me--fifty-fifty. Haven't I told you times enough?”

”But, I mean, what must I do to help?”

”I don't need any of your help. I only want you to say that you'll lead me to that money.”

Vaniman drew a deep breath. ”I will lead you to that money.”

”Some men would make you swear that you know just where the coin is,”

proceeded Wagg. ”But I'm playing my own hunch in this thing on that point. Furthermore, I have talked with a chap named Bixby.” He looked hard at the ex-cas.h.i.+er. ”Bixby tied your little game into knots, didn't he?”

Vaniman admitted that fact by a rueful sag of his chin.

”Confidence--mutual confidence in each other!” Mr. Wagg walked away.

When he came back past Vaniman, patrolling, he snapped: ”No more talk!

No more need of talk. Never can tell when talk may trip us. From now on, sit tight!”

After that, though days pa.s.sed, Wagg had not one word for the amelioration of the convict's impatience. Then, one day, Wagg changed his job again. Vaniman was kept at the same work, if work it could be called. He caught glimpses of Wagg. The guard was busy on the opposite side of the big pit. He had two or three convict helpers. They began to operate drills in the side of a rocky hillock which towered considerably above the level of the yard.

News circulates inside prison walls despite the inhibition on communications between the inmates. Vaniman got information piecemeal from convicts who stopped near him on the pretense of spitting on their hands to get a new grip on their barrow handles. He learned that the plan was to mine the hillock and rig a blast that would tip it into the pit for filling. The barrow work was proving too slow an operation and the prison commissioners wanted the outside men put back into the shops where they could earn money for the state.

It was evident that Guard Wagg was having a great deal of trouble with his helpers. He was continually bawling them out with a violence whose volume reached the ears of Vaniman.

One day Wagg perceived the warden inspecting the work from the edge of the pit near Vaniman; the guard came trotting around.

”Warden, I'm an expert on quarry work, as you know,” he panted. ”I'm doing my best to show you that I haven't forgotten what I learned over at Stoneport, and to back up what I promised you and the commissioners after I gave you the tip as to what could be done with that hill. Much obliged to you for allowing me all the dynamite I need. But, demmit!

I haven't got anybody with brains to help me handle it. It's notional stuff, sir. It hates a blasted fool.” He pointed a finger at the men across the pit. Their striped suits suggested the nomenclature he used ”Those potato bugs will do something to blow us to blazes sure'n there's air in a doughnut hole!”

The warden showed his concern. ”Don't you know of some man who is used to dynamite?”

”That ain't it, sir. A fool gets used to it, till he's too cussed familiar. I want a man with brains enough to be polite to it.”

The warden, making a general survey of the scene, beheld Vaniman. ”A man who knows enough to be a bank cas.h.i.+er ought to have brains, Wagg. How about Number Two-Seven-Nine?”

Mr. Wagg contemplated Vaniman and took plenty of time for thought. ”I'll try him,” he said, without enthusiasm. ”I hadn't thought of him--but I'll try him.”

Directed to do so by the warden, Vaniman went to his new work with Wagg.

The latter exhibited no especial symptoms of satisfaction at securing such a helper. He told the young man that his particular care would be the dynamite--to handle the boxes, store them in the little shed, unpack the sticks, and follow the drills, planting the rendrock ready for the blast that was to topple the hillock into the pit. Mr. Wagg explained to the warden, after a time, that the dynamite could be planted more safely and to better advantage when the drillers were off the job. Therefore, Vaniman was detailed to help during the noon hour while the prisoners were at dinner.

But, even when they were alone together, day after day, Mr. Wagg maintained his reticence. Once in a while he did wink at Vaniman. The winks grew more frequent when Mr. Wagg began to connect up the dynamite pockets in the hill with wires. One afternoon, near knocking-off time, he stepped into the shed where Vaniman was covering up his boxes for the night. ”When you leave your cell in the morning,” said the man who had promised freedom, ”hide in your pockets all the letters and little chickle-fixings you intend to carry away with you. You won't be going back into that cell again, Number Two-Seven-Nine.”

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