“Were you not afraid,” I continued, not heeding the interruption, “that you would fall into the basement when you sat on the iron railing at the corner of North Avenue and Larrabee Street, near the police station, or did you feel confident that the bombs you had in your pocket would hold you in your place? Another thing—you are not in the habit of smoking cigars. Did they make you sick?”
Muntzenberg had remained somewhat passive up to this last shot, but he suddenly showed there was a good deal of vitality in him. His eyes flashed with excitement, and he was all attention.
“By the way,” I went on, “how much weight can you carry?”
“What do you mean?” interposed the anxious listener.
“I mean how much did that gray satchel weigh that you carried to 58 Clybourn Avenue May 4, about eight o’clock?”
“D——n the informers,” ejaculated the now irate little Anarchist. “Give me an hour to think matters over and call me again.”
He was sent back to his cell, and on the expiration of two hours he was brought back. He entered the office very meekly, and at once said:
“Captain, I see it is no use for me to be stubborn. Will you treat me like the others, if I tell all I have seen and what I have done myself?”
“I promise you the same right and privilege.”