Then again the old banker had a coughing fit. “Now, Gudge,” he said, “I know more or less about all that. What I want to know is about this conspiracy against me. Tell me how you came to find out about it.”
And Peter told; but of course he embellished it, in so far as it related to Mr. Ackerman—these fellows were talking about Mr. Ackerman all the time, they had a special grudge against him.
“But why?” cried the old man. “Why?”
“They think you’re fighting them, Mr. Ackerman.”
“But I’m not! That’s not true!”
“Well, they say you put up money to hang Goober. They call you—you’ll excuse me?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“They call you the ‘head money devil.’ They call you the financial king of American City.”
“King!” cried the banker. “What rubbish! Why, Gudge, that’s fool newspaper talk! I’m a poor man today. There are two dozen men in this city richer than I am, and who have more power. Why—” But the old man fell to coughing and became so exhausted that he sank back into his pillows until he recovered his breath. Peter waited respectfully; but of course he wasn’t fooled. Peter had carried on bargaining many times in his life, and had heard people proclaim their poverty and impotence.
“Now, Gudge,” the old man resumed. “I don’t want to be killed; I tell you I don’t want to be killed.”