“It iss ten t’ousand tallers. You make me out dot paper you gif me half yet.”
“Damn it! You answer my question. I can’t make this out unless I know you’re going to come up to the scratch.” He made a show of writing, and talked at the same time. “I, G. B. Stiles, detective, in the employ of Peter Craigmile, of the town of Leauvite, for the capture of the murderer of his son, Peter Craigmile, Jr., do hereby promise one Nels Nelson, Swede,––in the employ of Mr Decker, hotel proprietor, as stable man,––for services rendered in the identification of said criminal at such time as he should be found,–––Now, what service have you rendered? How much money have you spent in the search?”
“Not’ing. I got heem.”
“Nothing. That’s just it.”
“I got heem.”
“No, you haven’t got him, and you can’t get him without 352 me. Don’t you think it. I am the one to get him. You have no warrant and no license. I’m the one to put in the claim and get the reward for you, and you’ll have to take what I choose to give, and no more. By rights you would only have your fee as witness, and that’s all. That’s all the state gives. Whatever else you get is by my kindness in sharing with you. Hear?”
A dangerous light gleamed in the Swede’s eyes, and Stiles, by a slight disarrangement of his coat in the search for his handkerchief, displayed a revolver in his hip pocket. Nels’ eyes shifted, and he looked away.
“You’d better quit this damned nonsense and say what you’ll take and what you’ll swear to.”
“I’ll take half dot money,” said Nels, softly and stubbornly.
“I’ll take out all I’ve spent on this case before we divide it in any way, shape, or manner.” Stiles figured a moment on the margin of his paper. “Now, what are you going to swear to? You needn’t shift round. You’ll tell me here just what you’re prepared to give in as evidence before I put down a single figure to your name on this paper. See?”