Part 15 (1/2)

The silent man nudged his partner and remarked, ”Yes, we're agoin' to deal with the Government. That's a good way to put it.”

The other man made an impatient gesture, and proceeded to explain a small machine to Mr. Trimble. ”You don't exactly understand my friend,”

he said, ”but no matter. This kind of a torpedo isn't of the submarine kind; we pack the explosives here, matches here, friction paper just beside them; but just here we are stuck, and we need you or some other mechanic to show us how the thing can be set off by electricity, the operator to touch a b.u.t.ton at a distance.”

Mr. Trimble bent himself to an examination of the contrivance. He asked several questions, and as his scrutiny continued, his expression of satisfaction changed to one of mistrust and alarm. Suddenly he sprang from his seat and pushed the model from him. ”That is an infernal-machine!” he exclaimed.

”That's about the long and the short of it,” said the man, calmly.

”Then I will have nothing to do with it,” and he turned toward the door.

”Hold on, my friend, ain't you a trifle in a hurry? All we want you to do is to fix that attachment for us, and if you won't do it some other man will, but we're willing to pay you a hundred dollars for the job.

That's a goodish sum to pay, if the job is a little queer, but I take it you're used to doing queer things by the big checks that pa.s.s through your hands.”

”What do you mean?” Stephen Trimble asked, with some indignation.

”Oh! you needn't pretend innocence and poverty. A man doesn't scatter round thousand-dollar checks who's as poor as you pretend to be, or as good, either.”

”Tell me what you mean.”

”Now don't tell us you know nothing of a check for a thousand dollars which we happened to see in the pocket-book of the agent of this building when he dropped in here to collect the rent.”

”I never saw a check for a thousand dollars in my life.”

”If you don't believe me, ask that sharp little boy of yours. It was he who first let me know there was a scientific man in the building. He saw me unpacking my machine. I happened to leave the door open just a minute. I never saw such a sharp little fellow. In he comes and says, 'My father makes machines too. He's going to make us awful rich some day.'

”After that he got in the way of knocking at the door and asking to see my machinery. I thought it would be a good idea to let him, for he is too little to suspect anything, and I could stuff him with the idea that I was making a new kind of telegraph, for I was pretty sure that he would tell it around, and that people would believe it and think there couldn't be anything shady in what I was doing if I let anybody and everybody have the freedom of the room.

”Well, the day I'm speaking of, your little chap was sitting there turning the crank of that machine just as cheerful as if it wouldn't have blown him to kingdom come if the attachment had only been on, when in come another little feller who had been looking for him. 'See here,'

says my partner, 'there's getting to be too many children here; we don't keep a Sunday-school, we don't.' They were just going to leave, when the agent he come in with the rent contract for us to sign. Well, the boys lingered round, full of curiosity, as boys are, and we signed the paper and handed over the cash. Mr. Meyer in stuffing it away in his pocket-book brought to light that thousand-dollar check I was telling you about. He fumbled to hide it, but it dropped on the floor, and a little gust of wind carried it over to where the boys were. The oldest boy--Jim, I think your son called him--picked it up, and took a good look at it. 'Hullo!' says he, 'here's your father's name, Lovey. ”Pay to the order of Stephen Trimble one thousand dollars”!' The agent he just made one dive for that check, with his fist lifted as though he were going to strike the boy, who dropped the check, and both the little shavers scooted, and none too soon either, for Meyer looked mad enough to kill the youngster, though he tried to laugh it off, and turned the check over and showed me that it was his fast enough, for it was endorsed on the back, 'Pay to the order of Solomon Meyer.'”

Stephen Trimble put his hand to his head in a dazed way. ”You are fooling me,” he said.

”Not we, but somebody is, if you don't know anything about it. Well, if you are not the bloated bondholder we took you for, perhaps you'll consider our little offer?”

”No, gentlemen, not to-night at least; give me time to think it over.

One bad man may have wronged me, but I've no call to go against the law.”

”Oh yes, take plenty of time”--and they opened the door. Some one was knocking at Stephen Trimble's own room. It was the flap-jack man, and he had a white, scared face.

”What is the matter?” asked the inventor.

”Lovey's been--”

”Run over?” gasped the poor father.

”No; arrested.”

Stephen Trimble gave one exclamation of horror--then asked, ”What's he done?”