“Hank!” exclaimed Jack, coming up behind the fellow and laying his hand on his shoulder.
“Jumping periwinkles! It’s Jack Curtiss!” exclaimed Hank. “The very fellow I want to see, too. Have you got a quiet place we can go and where you can give me a good drink?—and I’ll tell you something that’s worth your while.”
“Worth while. What are you getting at?” exclaimed Jack incredulously, for he knew Hank of old. “I heard about your escape. Why, you are just an escaped convict. What can you know that’s worth while?”
“I know there is two thousand dollars in good money right on that schooner,” was the astonishing response, “and if you keep me hid and the boat don’t break up I’ll pay you well for your trouble.”
“Sure you’re not at your old tricks, Hank?” questioned Jack and Bill, in one breath.
“No; it’s true as gospel. You believe me, don’t you?”
The outcast, wet, dripping, and miserable as he was, had a convincing ring in his voice as he hinted at his improbable tale.
But Jack was so dishonest and unreliable himself that he applied the same standards to everybody else—and with some justice in Hank’s case. He, therefore, made a non-committal reply.
“I know a place where I can hide you, Hank,” he said, “till we find out if your yarn is true or not. In the meantime, come on and get on some dry clothes, and throw a feed into yourself. Then you can tell us your story. If you’re lying to us, it will go hard with you.”
“I wish I were as sure of going to heaven as I am that there is two thousand dollars on that schooner,” grunted Hank, in reply.