Satan turned a thumbscrew which seemed to open a valve of compressed air, for there was a hissing sound, and the furnace began to glow almost at once.
“What the dickens does all this tomfoolery mean?” demanded Tucker. “What are you trying to do with me, anyhow?”
“As Sate hath remarked,” said the Turk, “you’re an easy-going liar. We are prepared to force the bitter truth from your unwilling lips. A short time ago some one sold the baseball signals of Umpty-ten to the manager of a rival team. You, Thomas Jefferson Tucker, were the miserable wretch who did that.”
“You, Turkey, old boy, are a liar by the clock!” flung back Tommy. “I had nothing to do with it. I thought that was proven long ago.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Satan. “Your fine friend, Richard Merriwell, induced a wretched bummer to shoulder the blame of that piece of treachery, but we happen to know that the bummer was paid to clear you of stigma. While you have been cleared, suspicion has continued to rest on another who is innocent.”
“I suppose you mean Bern Wolfe?”
“You have named him,” was the answer. “We know Wolfe had nothing to do with that dirty business, and we, likewise, know that you did. This very night we caught you in company with the public stenographer who made a typewritten copy of those signals. After you escorted her home you were brought here for treatment.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the clown. “Treatment is an elegant and appropriate word.”
“We have here,” continued Satan, producing a sheet of paper, “a nice little typewritten confession of your sins, which we expect you to sign. I’ve brought a fountain pen for the purpose. In this document you acknowledge that you are the traitor who gave the signals to Ben Newhouse of the Hudson team. Would you like to read it?”
“I don’t care to waste my time,” said Tucker. “If you think you’re going to get my autograph hitched onto the bottom of that document, you’re a bigger fool than I ever took the devil to be.”