“It is,” the fat man remarked blandly, without removing the cigar from his lips.
Bill’s father was taken aback by this unadulterated candor, but neither by manner nor change of tone did he betray his surprise. “How much do you want to let us go?”
The man at the desk knocked the ash from his cigar.
“Why, it’s not a question of money at the present moment, Mr. Bolton. That will undoubtedly come later. Just now, my brothers and I have need of you in other ways.”
“You mean that we are to be kept here as your prisoners?”
“You have guessed the secret, Mr. Bolton. And my advice to you and to your son is to do exactly as you are told, without argument or question. Strangers on Shell Island have always found that to disobey commands here is a particularly unhealthy pastime. Obey on the jump—is our slogan. I hope for your sakes that neither of you forgets it.” He smiled at them affably and puffed on his cigar.
Mr. Bolton was about to speak his mind when Bill caught his arm. “Stow it, Dad,” he said. “That lad has us just where he wants us. I’d like to say what I think, too,—but what’s the use?”
Their host waved his hand and their guards led the Boltons out of the house.
Once on the road, tramping back toward the settlement below, Mr. Bolton passed his arm through Bill’s.
“Your Naval Academy training has put a head on your shoulders, son,” he said affectionately. “You have developed better control of your temper under stress than I have. I’m glad you stopped me. Ordinarily a man of my position in the world is in the habit of speaking his mind when provoked.”