"It's a job all right, isn't it, Bill?" asked the officer of a fireman who was calmly playing a small stream from the extinguisher on the remaining flames.
"Surest job I ever saw," answered the man, turning for a look at me in the darkening light. "Pretty tough-looking customer. Don't belong to this town. Smell the kerosene?"
"I smell it all right. You can smell it a mile, and he's got it on his clothes, too. Come on wi' me, my jewel. You're good for a few years at Trenton."
Under a fictitious name I spent the night in jail, and in the morning, before the time for court to open, received a visit from Mr. George Morton.
"Want to get at the person higher up, Mr. Morton?" asked the jailer, as they appeared before my cell. "Well, I can give you about half an hour."
"Yes, yes," answered my visitor. "I want to talk with him privately; so, leave us alone, if you will. But don't get beyond call, please—not too far away."
"Right. I'll come if I hear from you."
He admitted Morton and locked him in with me, then left us alone. Morton was clean and well-dressed, with only a nervousness of speech and movement to indicate that a few hours before he had fought for liberty and honor with the man he was now facing. He took a seat at the end of my plank, while I sat at the other end, and took his measure; thinner and older, of course, than when I had known him at school, but with the same graceful figure, and handsome, though unpleasant, face.
"Well," I said, with what sarcasm I could command. "Are you here to get me to tell who hired me to set fire to your house?"
"Not exactly," he answered, eying me closely. "I'm here to find out what you mean to do."