“But the Professor, sir—he will—”
“The Professor is having his own troubles, my friend. Anyway, for some time to come, you and your amiable wife in the other room will be occupying nice little cells in a big, safe jail! Out with it now—or I shall become impatient.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll tell.” Still thoroughly frightened, the man spoke submissively. “Just what was it you wanted to know?”
“Everything that you know about this silver dollar business, and the place up at Mizzentop. Make it snappy, though! I don’t want to hang around here all night.”
“Yes, sir. Professor Fanely is crazy—crazy on one subject. I noticed it coming on last year, and this spring, he got worse. ’Twas then he started this token bunk. Him and that big secretary of his, Lambert. Every one of us was handed out one of them stamped dollars, and we was all sworn to secrecy and given a number. Mine’s thirteen, and it’s brung me nuthin’ but bad luck.”
“—So you’re the guy that broke into the Boltons!”
“I was, sir—got in by a winder. But I didn’t get nuthin’—and I lost my token into the bargain. Professor raised the roof about it, and docked my pay, too.”
“That was just too bad,” declared Osceola sarcastically. “Now go ahead with the rest of it—this organization, and old Fanely’s crazy fancy.”
“It weren’t no fancy, sir. Professor Fanely, for all his friendliness with the big bugs down in Washington, hates the whole bunch of ’em like poison. He wanted to be President, but they wouldn’t let him run—too old to be considered, I guess. It’s been preyin’ on his mind ever since the last election, but the old boy was foxy, he kept it pretty much to himself. Lambert told me, though, he used to blow up to him. Well, last spring he made up his mind to get even with the government. Nobody but a crazy man would have thought up the plan. Me and some of the others that worked for him didn’t want to go into it. It wa’nt no use, though; we knew what we’d get in the end if we welshed. And he raised our pay then, you see—”
“I see. But what was this crazy plan?”