"Nevertheless," said Coleman, "they may prove dangerous in a crisis like this. They have the reckless courage of leadership that may turn a mob into a destroying body. We must do everything we can to hasten the enrollment and organization of the Committee of Safety's forces. By the way, have you signed the roll yet?"
"No. I haven't had time to think of it."
"This will never do. You are a leading citizen now and must set a good example. Come with me. We have our headquarters in the Chamber of Commerce rooms for the day, but at night we shall assemble in Horticultural Hall. We are going to have a big force, and must have a big armory."
The assembly hall of the Chamber of Commerce was fitted up with desks, and a score of clerks were busy with books and papers. Two or three hundred men had gathered in the hall, and the clerks were surrounded by confused but orderly groups. Coleman led me to one of the desks, and I signed my name while he himself pinned on my coat the badge of the Vigilantes.
As I wrote, I was astonished to see a dozen lines above my pen the signature of Peter Bolton, and it struck fire to my anger that the arch-conspirator--the man who had inspired the disorder that threatened the city--should have enrolled his name among those who pledged their lives and fortunes to its defense. I gave a quick look about the room with the thought that I should discover the spare face and sardonic smile of the curmudgeon enjoying the flutter into which he had thrown the solid men of the city. But he was nowhere to be seen, and I debated whether I should call Mr. Coleman's attention to the matter; but as I remembered that Wharton Kendrick had checked a mention of Bolton's name in Coleman's own house, and saw no present purpose to be served by the discovery, I followed the sound rule of keeping my mouth shut. And as William T. Coleman retired to the office of the Committee of Twenty-four, I returned to my duties.
On entering the door of my office I was given a shock of surprise. A man of spare figure, tall, with bowed and narrow shoulders, sat facing Partridge and Nelson, and presented only his back to my view; but the back was unmistakably the back of Peter Bolton. Nelson leaned forward, watching him with close attention, while Partridge was running rapidly through a bundle of papers.
"I've got to have the money," were the first words that came to me in Peter Bolton's complaining voice. "Here are the securities--pretty good securities, too--better than you took from Packenham, or Hooper, or a dozen others--ten times as good as you took from the Sundown Bank."
Partridge swiftly sorted the papers into two packets. The larger one he threw across the desk to Bolton.
"The banks will take those," he said with crisp brevity. "We can advance three hundred thousand on the others, if necessary. What do you want to do with the money?"
Peter Bolton gave his head a slow shake.