"Not we, but somebody is, if you don't know anything about it. Well, if you are not the bloated bondholder we took you for, perhaps you'll consider our little offer?"
"No, gentlemen, not to-night at least; give me time to think it over. One bad man may have wronged me, but I've no call to go against the law."
"Oh yes, take plenty of time"—and they opened the door. Some one was knocking at Stephen Trimble's own room. It was the flap-jack man, and he had a white, scared face.
"What is the matter?" asked the inventor.
"Lovey's been—"
"Run over?" gasped the poor father.
"No; arrested."
Stephen Trimble gave one exclamation of horror—then asked, "What's he done?"
"Nothing but wheeling my cart; they'd have caught me, too, but I cut and run. This is a pretty country where one is arrested for trying to earn an honest living!"
This was the last straw. Stephen Trimble had said that he had no reason to resist the law, but he could not hold to that now. He staggered feebly down-stairs, knocked at the door of the dynamiters, and said. "I've come back sooner than I thought I would. Give me five dollars in advance, and I'll undertake that business of yours to-morrow, and maybe I'll get up a little infernal-machine for my own use at the same time, but just now I must find my boy."