“Just name the kind of a hand-spring you’d like to have me turn, gentlemen,” he said, half-sardonically, when Tarbell had switched on the second circuit of incandescents. “I’m not much of an acrobat, but I’ll do the best I can to amuse you.”
It was Sprague who did the talking for the prosecution.
“We want to know first who is with you in this job of inside worm-eating, Mr. Bascom,” he said coolly.
“Nobody,” came the prompt lie.
Sprague’s smile was affable. “I’m sure you’ll make one exception,” he urged; “a man named Murtagh, who was for a little time one of your shop machinists and who is now a press-repairer on The Times-Record.”
Bascom sat up and swore a savage oath.
“So that damned scab has welshed, has he?” he grated.
Sprague branched off and began again, this time in the straitly criminal field.
“How many locomotives have you treated with the acid cure, first and last, Mr. Bascom?”
“Enough so you’ll still be resetting flues in ’em a year from now.”