“There are other reasons,” said Jeff. “You have been pleased to speak well of me. You have boasted, both for yourself and for me, enough and more than enough. Let me now boast for myself. Has it never occurred to you that such a man as I am would have friends—formidable friends? That they are wondering what has become of me? If you agree to my arrangement, I have a chance of saving both my life and some shreds of decency. I do not now want my friends to come in search of me and get me killed in trying to rescue me—for you will, of course, redouble your precautions after this. This letter will put my friends at ease. I will have to trust you to mail it. That is the weakness of my position. But I will think that there is a chance that you will mail it—and that chance will help me to keep a quiet mind. That much, at least, will be a clear gain. Do this, and I will yield a point to you. If you would rather I didn’t, I will not go to see you hanged!”
The amazing effrontery of this last coaxing touch so appealed to Judge Thorpe’s sense of humor that he quite recovered his good nature. “My dear boy,” he said, “if I should ever be hanged, I wouldn’t miss having you there for worlds. It would add a zest to the occasion that I should grieve to lose. I will agree unconditionally to your proposed modus vivendi. As I understand it, if I can hang Tillotson you are to keep silence and go free. But if you can contrive to get me hanged you are to attend the festivity in person? It is a wager. Write your letter and I’ll mail it. Of course, I’ll have to read it and edit it if needed. And say—Bransford! I’ll mail it, too! You can be at rest on that point. In the meantime, I presume, I may move without bringing the typewriter about my ears?”
“You may,” said Jeff. “It’s a bet. I wish you’d wait and I’ll write the letter now. She’ll be anxious about me. It’ll take some time. I always write her long letters. Let me have your fountain-pen, will you?”
“Why don’t you use your typewriter?” said the Judge. “And, by the way, I fear we shall have to deprive you of your typewriter in the future.”
“A typewritten letter wouldn’t be consistent at all,” said Jeff. “I am supposed to be writing from darkest Old Mexico. No typewriters there. Besides, I can’t write with the damn thing to do any good. Say, don’t take it away from me, Judge; there’s a good fellow. I want to master it. I do hate to be beaten.”
“The elasticity with which you adjust yourself to changing conditions is beyond all praise,” said the Judge, smiling. “Like the other Judge, in the Bible, I yield to importunity. I can deny you nothing. Keep your typewriter, then, with the express understanding that its use as a deadly weapon is barred. Here’s the pen.”
Chapter VIII
“Alice’s Right Foot, Esq.,
Hearthrug,
Near the Fender,