The proposed ten minutes had lengthened into an hour and still no one came out of the hut.
Mudd seemed to have forgotten all about his proposed talk with Dick, until at last the door of the hut flew open and he came staggering along with his rusty old plug tilted back on his head and his necktie twisted around under his chin.
“Hello, Dick—Dick Darrell,” he said, thickly. “Are you there?”
“Can’t you see me?” replied Dick. “You could if you weren’t drunk.”
“Don’t sass me, boy, for it won’t pay you,” replied Mudd, staggering up to Dick and sitting down upon the ground beside him.
His back was now against a pile of rocks, which at this point cropped out upon the shore.
“Let me free, Mudd,” said Dick. “Come, now, no use in us two quarreling. Let me free.”
“Not a bit of use in our quarreling,” hiccoughed Mudd, “but I won’t set you free yet. Say, Dick Darrell, here’s the—here’s the—hic—the whole business in a clam shell. Clara’s father robbed your father of the big Gold Queen mine up in the Black Hills and hired a man to do your father up and he did.”
“Do you know this,” cried Dick. “You are pretty drunk, Mudd; do you feel sure you are speaking the truth?”
“Sure!” cried Mudd. “Why, of course, I’m sure! Hain’t I the—well, never mind. I was paid $5,000 to do you up all right, though, and Tom Eglinton is the man who paid the plunks. Burn him! He’s no good. That Gold Queen mine belongs to you, young feller, and it’s worth more’n a million, by Jove! Sign that air paper ’bout the hundred thousand dollars and I’ll give you evidence against Tom Eglinton what will hold good in any court—oh, great snakes, what’s this?”