“The welfare of my sister—”
“Never you mind your sister. You're talkin' with me now. And you ain't got me penned up in a house, neither. By jiminy crimps!” His anger boiled over, and, to the inventor's eyes, he began to look alarmingly alive. “By jiminy crimps!” repeated Seth, “I've been prayin' all these years to meet you somewheres alone, and now I've a good mind to—to—”
His big fist closed. Bennie D. stepped backward out of reach.
“Bascom—” he cried, “don't—”
“Don't you call me that!”
“Bascom—” The inventor was thoroughly frightened, and his voice rose almost to a shout.
The lightkeeper's wrath vanished at the sound of the name. If any native of Eastboro, if the depot master on the other side of the track, should hear him addressed as “Bascom,” the fat would be in the fire for good and all. The secret he had so jealously guarded would be out, and all the miserable story would, sooner or later, be known.
“Don't call me Bascom,” he begged. “Er—please don't.”
Bennie D.'s courage returned. Yet he realized that if a trump card was to be played it must be then. This man was dangerous, and, somehow or other, his guns must be spiked. A brilliant idea occurred to him. Exactly how much of the truth Seth knew he was not sure, but he took the risk.
“Very well then—Atkins,” he said contemptuously. “I am not used to aliases—not having dealt with persons finding it necessary to employ them—and I forget. But before this disagreeable interview is ended I wish you to understand thoroughly why I am here. I am here to protect my sister and to remove her from your persecution. I am here to assist her in procuring a divorce.”