“Don’t you know when you’ve got enough?” He stepped forward and removed the heavy wrench from Smaltz’s reach. “I’ll give you just one minute by the watch there to make up your mind. You’d better write, for you won’t be able when I’m through!”
They measured each other, eye to eye again. Each could hear the breathing of the other in the silence while the watch ticked off the seconds. An over-sanguine pack-rat tried to scramble up the tar-paper covering on the outside and squeaked as he fell back with a thud, but the face of neither man relaxed. Smaltz took the full limit of the time. He saw Bruce’s fingers work, then clinch. Suddenly he grinned—a sheepish, unresentful grin.
“I guess you’re the best man,” He slouched to the bench and sat down.
He was still writing when Banule came, breathing hard and still dripping from his frigid swim. He stopped short and his jaw dropped at seeing Smaltz. He was obviously disappointed at finding him alive.
Smaltz handed Bruce the paper when he had finished and signed his name. Neither the writing or composition was that of an illiterate man. Bruce read it carefully and handed it to Banule:
“Read this and witness it.”
Banule did as he was told, for once, apparently, too dumfounded for comment.
“Now copy it,” said Bruce, and Smaltz obeyed.
When this was done, signed and witnessed Smaltz looked up inquiringly—his expression said—“What next?”
Bruce stepped to the double doors and slid the bolt.