"That wouldn't make any difference with him," said Glen. "He's straight as a string."
Mr. Gates would have been gratified to know how deep an impression his Christian character had made on this boy who had flouted his kindness.
Mr. J. Jervice was not inclined to conversation—he was puzzling over a problem something akin to that of the fox and the geese (he to be the fox). So they drove along in comparative silence until, topping a hill, Glen exclaimed at the sight of the buildings of a large town.
"Are we almost there?" he asked.
"About three miles yet," said Mr. J. Jervice. "What you going to do when we get there?"
"I'm not sure, but I think I'd better leave you before we get to town. I don't believe Mr. Gates would telephone the police but somebody else might."
"You can ride with me a couple o' miles yet. Tell ye what ye can do. S'pose'n you get inside. There's lots o' room and there's a ventilator back o' this seat will give ye air. You be real careful and not go fussing around disturbing things. There's things there I wouldn't want ye to touch."
It seemed a good idea. Mr. J. Jervice unlocked the doors in the back and Glen stepped inside. The doors slammed behind him and he heard the heavy steel bar drop into its slots. Then he heard something like a laugh—a foxy laugh. Why should Mr. J. Jervice laugh? At once his suspicions were awakened.
As Mr. J. Jervice climbed to his seat again Glen shouted to him through the ventilator.
"Stop," he shouted. "I've changed my mind. I don't like being in here and I believe I'll take my chance with you on the front seat."