“Orders is orders, though, sir.”
Sam ran a hand in a trousers pocket, pondering bribery. But there was not so much as a Lincoln penny in his ball togs. He determined to try intimidation.
“Perkins,” he said gravely and kindly, “I wouldn’t want to make any trouble for you, because, as you say, you’re just obeying orders. But in holding me here against my wishes you’re—er—making yourself liable to prosecution for kidnapping.” Sam paused impressively. Perkins, who had drawn the door close all save a space broad enough to accommodate his thin face, listened respectfully and nodded.
“Yes, sir, you may be right, sir. But, begging your pardon, sir, there’s ice cream on that tray and I’m thinking it’ll be melted pretty quick, sir.”
“Never mind about the ice cream,” replied Sam irascibly. “What I want to know is if you’re going to keep me prisoner here against my wishes and—er—the law?”
Perkins scratched his head reflectively.
“Orders is orders,” he said finally.
“But, of course, you knew that Chester was only joking,” said Sam, essaying a chuckle of amusement. Perkins smiled responsively.
“Sure, I knew,” he answered.