"What are you going to do with him?"
"I haven't decided yet just what to do with him, but the scoundrel undoubtedly belongs in South Carolina, and I have every intention of making his own state punish him."
The prisoner leaned heavily against his prison door and glared out upon his jailer with a new, fierce interest.
"I tell you I've nothing to do with the Appleweights! I don't want to reveal my identity to you, you young beggar; but I demand my legal rights."
"My dear sir," retorted Ardmore, "you have no legal rights, for the writ of habeas corpus doesn't go here. You seem rather intelligent for a barn burner and timber thief. Come now, what is your name?"
The prisoner gazed down upon the imperturbable figure of his captor through the slats of the corn-crib. Ardmore returned his gaze with his most bland and child-like air. Many people had been driven to the point of madness by Ardmore's apparent dullness. The prisoner realized that he must launch a thunderbolt if he would disturb a self-possession so complete—a tranquillity as sweet as the fading afternoon.
"Mr. Ardmore, I dislike to do it, but your amazing conduct makes it necessary for me to disclose my identity," and the man's manner showed real embarrassment.
"I knew it; I knew it;" nodded Ardmore, folding his arms across his chest. "You're either the King of Siam or the Prince of Petosky. As either, I salute you!"
"No!" roared the captive, beating impotently against the door of the cage with his hands. "No! I'm the governor of South Carolina!"
This statement failed, however, to produce the slightest effect on Mr. Ardmore, who only smiled slightly, a smile less incredulous than disdainful.