No one to have heard him would have dreamed of the excitement he was laboring under just then.
“No mistake at all,” laughed Mudd. “Mebbe you think I am mad?”
“You act that way. I don’t know you and you can’t possibly know me. I’m only a poor assistant in the National Museum. If you are working for money I don’t see where you expect to gain anything by sticking that knife into me.”
This remark and the coolness with which it was uttered undoubtedly saved Dick’s life.
Martin Mudd immediately changed his tune.
“Say,” he exclaimed, “you give me an idea, young feller. I am working for money every time and the man who bids the highest for my services is the man who gets them—mebbe you’d like to bid.”
“I’ll make a bid for my life, you bet,” said Dick. “Suppose you explain the situation. I’ll be blest if I understand it at all.”
“That’s business,” replied Mr. Mudd, looking over at the hut; “just drop that gun of yours while I hold you as you are. Don’t try to use it on me now, boy, for if you do by the piper who played before Moses I’ll bury this knife in your heart.”
Dick threw the revolver down on the ground. There was no chance to use it with that terrible grip on his throat.
“That’s right,” said Mudd, kicking the revolver off to some distance. “Now we can talk. Promise me that you won’t make a move and I’ll let go your throat.”