“That’s right,” mused Mr. Elder, “we couldn’t do a thing with him till we got you out. He’d work for us for nothin’, but not till we got you out of jail.”
“Didn’t I tell you,” exclaimed Jack to old Zecatacas. “Ain’t he on the square for fair? Dat’s why, mister.”
The wrinkled Gypsy Queen smiled.
“He is our friend,” she added in a broken voice. “To his friend, the gypsy gives all.”
“I ain’t no Romney,” added the man, shaking his head, “but the kid’s all right. It’s comin’ to him, and we’re goin’ to see he gets a square deal.”
President Elder sat silent for a few moments, and then drew Mr. Camp to the far side of the room.
“Camp,” he began, curiously, “what’s your interest in this boy?”
It was Mr. Camp’s chance. While the tobacco-chewing and illiterate mill owner rapidly related the story of the last two days, the dignified bank president chuckled, grinned, and finally burst into loud guffaws.
“And the joke of it is,” he said, when Mr. Camp had finished, “that Bud’s fright on the last day was altogether unnecessary. The machine is ours. The company accepted our offer by telegraph, waived their representative’s fee and called him off.”
“But Bud seen him waitin’ with the deputy,” insisted the mill owner.