“Well?”
“You observe this cylinder? It contains a small stick of dynamite. If you do what I tell you it goes back into my pocket; if you refuse—the newspapers will have a new sensation, that’s all.”
“You seem to forget,” said Vance, coolly, “that dynamite is like an overloaded shotgun—it works at both ends. If you drop that thing in this room there isn’t a ghost of a chance for you to escape yourself.”
“That needn’t worry you,” retorted the rascal angrily.
“What do you want of me, anyway?” asked the boy impatiently.
“I want you to sign that paper.”
He pushed a document to Vance.
It was a delivery slip for six million bushels of corn, made out in favor of Sidney Carrington.
“So that’s your game, is it?” said Vance Thornton slowly.
“Yes, sir; that’s my game.”