The midget wrinkled his small brow in thought.
“Not so bad,” he murmured. “Not so bad. But Johnny; did you ever wonder what a little fellow like me lives for?”
“No, I didn’t,” Johnny admitted.
“Well, there’s a lot of things we can’t do that big folks can; but there’s one thing, Johnny, one thing,” Tom’s tone died to a whisper; “a short man can have a tall bank account. He can, can’t he, Johnny?” The little fellow twisted his face into a knowing smile.
“I guess he can,” grinned Johnny, “and it’s a fine thing that he can.”
Johnny had stepped over and was examining an ancient squirrel rifle, which Tom explained had belonged to his grandfather, when he noticed the way the walls of the house were fastened. The walls were made of fresh pine slabs. They were wired tight to something behind them. “Iron bars,” was his mental comment. “When they made this they just built it inside a wild animal cage. I wonder what would happen if a fellow were to get locked in here?”
He was speculating on this, when he heard a voice outside calling.
“Johnny, Johnny Thompson!” It was Gwen.
He answered the call and, turning to his little host, said: “Guess I better go. Some work, I suppose. Great little house, you’ve got. Much obliged for letting me see it.”
He backed out of the door and hurried away to join Gwen, but even as he did so, he thought of the midget clown’s reference to a tall bank account, and of his house built inside a cage. What if this little fellow was a miser? What if his greed for gold had led him into counterfeiting? What if he were Black McCree? What safer place could be found for hiding a counterfeiter’s den than a house built inside a cage on wheels?