"It's from Evarts," said the president, looking up with a quiet laugh. "He commands me to come to him at once, in his cell, and to arrange some way of getting out. My man," turning to the messenger, "are you going back to Evarts?"
"Yes," nodded the messenger, shifting his weight from one foot to another.
"Go back to Evarts, then, and tell him that he'll have to threaten some one else this time. Tell him that I am through with him."
"Huh!" growled the hang-dog messenger. "I believe Evarts said that, if old
Bascomb wasn't quick, he'd make trouble for some one."
"Tell Evarts," said Mr. Prenter, "that he can't make trouble for any one but himself, and that he had better save his breath for the next time he needs it."
"Evarts will be awful mad, if I go back to him with any talk like that," insinuated the messenger meaningly.
"See here, fellow," interjected. Tom Reade, stepping forward quickly, "I'm rather tired and out of condition to-night, but if you don't leave here as fast as you can go, I'll kick you every step of the way for the first half-mile back to Blixton! Do you think you understand me?"
"I—-I reckon I do," admitted the fellow.
"Then start before you tempt my right foot! I'll give you five seconds to get off."
There could be no mistaking that order. The messenger started off, nor did he glance backward as long as he was in sight.