“Well it isn’t all right,” declared Bill. “If you don’t let me out of here right away there’s going to be the biggest row you ever saw,” and, as if in support of his assertion the pitcher rushed over and began kicking on the door again.
“Hum! Them fellers was right,” murmured the man seemingly not a bit disturbed by what Bill was doing.
“What fellows?” demanded the pitcher, pausing in his attack.
“The ones what brought you here. They said you’d cut up rough, and make a lot of fuss, an’ by gum, they was right! I guess you sure enough do need a straight-jacket.”
“A straight-jacket!” gasped poor Bill. “Say, for the love of cats, tell me what I’m up against; won’t you?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” was the calm reply. “I was told to humor you until the keeper come, an’ I’m doin’ it. What would you like for breakfast?”
“I don’t want any—let me out!” pleaded Bill. He was beginning to see the joke now.
“I don’t dast,” replied the man. “The fellers what brung you here said you was dangerous at times, an’ I might be held responsible. They fetched you here in an automobile, an’ arranged with me to leave you in this vacant house of mine until they could come again, with keepers from the lunatic asylum, to take you away. I’m expectin’ ’em every minute, but they said I was to untie you by daylight, an’ feed you, as you was less violent when it wasn’t dark.”
“Say, look here!” cried Bill. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“I’m sure of it,” was the answer. “At least, no, I ain’t neither. There I clean forgot to say what them fellers told me to. No you ain’t crazy. I am, an’ everybody else is, but you’re sane. That’s what they said I was to tell you, if you asked me that question. All crazy persons thinks they are sane,” he went on in explanation. “You’re sane.”