“Whar do he tote de keys?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“Oh—everywhere!” Flournoy smiled. “In the lining of his clothes, in his shoes and socks, in his sleeves and cuffs, down his collar, even in his mouth—everywhere!”
“Huh!” Skeeter grunted. “Dat’s too bad.”
There was a long silence while Flournoy smilingly watched Skeeter think. The negro’s face was a pantomime of conflicting emotions, and the general effect made for gloom and depression. Finally Flournoy spoke:
“My information seems to discourage you, Skeeter. What’s the problem?”
“It’s dis way, Marse John,” Skeeter said earnestly. “Dat uppity, biggity nigger is done offered twenty-five dollars reward fer any handcuff he cain’t git off in five minutes, an’ I figgered dat I had a show to make de money.”
Flournoy thought a moment, then broke into a loud chuckle.
“I think you have a splendid chance to copper the coin, Skeeter. Wait here a minute!”
Flournoy opened a steel door, walked to the rear of the vault, and pawed over a lot of trash in one corner. Then he came out and tossed a handful of police hardware on the floor at Skeeter’s feet.
“I think they will hold him,” Flournoy laughed.