“What! You don’t mean it, Jason!”
“Yes, I do.”
“Who sent the letter?”
“That’s a secret. But come on, we’ll talk it over with Squire Thompson. Ain’t no time to waste.” And then the hotel man went off to interview the leading legal light of the town.
The conference at the squire’s office lasted the best part of two hours. At this Jason Sparr produced the contents of the package, several things picked up near the hotel at the time of the explosion—a tan glove, somewhat worn, two iron rings, an empty paper box marked, “L.” in one 166 corner, a whip handle, and a clock-like contrivance which had been used to set off the dynamite. He told of his trouble with Phil and his chums, of the threats made, and produced the letter received so mysteriously.
“Looks kind of plain to me, Squire,” he said. “Don’t you think so?”
“It isn’t for me to say,” replied the squire, cautiously. “But if you want to swear out warrants for those boys’ arrest––”
“Ain’t I justified?”
“Sure you are,” put in the constable, who happened to be the squire’s brother-in-law. “I wouldn’t waste no time on it.” He thought he saw in this a job for himself, with some fat fees.
“If you have them arrested, you’ve got to prove your case,” said Squire Thompson, slowly. “It’s a serious business, Sparr.”