“Figure it up and let me know,” said Mr. Baxter. “I guess my business is still prospering. I had a kind of notion Oliver October would step in and take hold of it in my place after I went away, so—But never mind about that. Yes, sir, I finally got the queen to confess that everything she said that night was false. She wanted two hundred, but I wouldn’t give it. Said she was ruining herself by confessing, and all that. Oliver ain’t going to be hung any more than you or I. All spite work, she says. Got mad at all of us. He’s not even going to be a general in the army, or a great and successful business man, or enter the halls of state, or—”
“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Gooch quickly, hopefully.
“—or look exactly like me,” concluded Mr. Baxter. “She’s going to make an affidavit to it soon as we get to Rumley to-morrow.”
Mr. Gooch started, casting an anxious look toward the kitchen door.
“Say, you—you don’t mean to tell me you’ve got her with you,” he rasped. “If that’s so, I want to tell you right now, Ollie Baxter, I won’t have you bringing any strange women into my house. My house is a respectable—”
“She’s out at the camp,” interrupted Mr. Baxter. “We’ve camped just south of town. I’ve been sleeping with her father for nearly a month—on rainy nights, I mean, when we had to get into the caravan. His name is Wattles. Eighty years old and still the best horsetrader in the tribe.”
Mr. Gooch groaned.
“I’ll fix up the sofa in the parlor for you to sleep on, Ollie,” he said after a long and thoughtful pause. “The bed in the spare room isn’t made up. In fact, it’s down altogether—being repaired,” he went on lamely.
“You’ve got a double bed in your room, haven’t you?” said Mr. Baxter.
“Well, it’s boiling at last,” evaded Mr. Gooch. “Now, we’ll have some nice hot coffee. Like it pretty strong?”