Tom shifted the visor of his cap a tiny bit one way, then back: it was a silent appeal, “What shall we do?”
Cliff picked up a pebble and shied it aimlessly to one side: that was a code sign which meant that the last word of every sentence in his next speech would have a meaning. Then he spoke up, carelessly.
“Let’s see. You said what? You’ve got news? Likely, that is!”
Mentally, as he spoke, Tom noted the pauses, and then, connecting the words that ended each short sentence, he discerned that Cliff’s advice was: “See—what—news—is!”
Tom moved the little finger of his right hand gently, knowing that Cliff watched for that sign of agreement: to use the left finger would mean denial or rejection of the advice; but Tom took it.
“You’ve got to let us know what you have to sell,” he addressed Henry Morgan. “I’m willing to pass my word and strike hands on it, if you have any knowledge that will help us to find my missing sister, I will pay you anything within reason.”
The three chums half expected Morgan to demur. If he told them what he knew it would be worthless to him; once they knew it they could use it. However, they got a slight surprise, for Morgan merely grinned and nodded.
“I’ll tell you,” he said, “’Cause why? ’Cause I want help. If I tell you, you can see how good it is—what I know. And even when I tell you, I’m still sure of my reward. ’Cause why? ’Cause I’ll tell you everything but one man’s name—and without that, you can’t do a thing—at the same time Hen Morgan can show that he knows what you want to know.”
He told them, quietly. They thrilled, they shuddered; they drew closer. Each and all, the Mystery Boys forgot that they were out on a lonely trail, forgot that the man was bargaining, in a way, for a human life. His story chained them in spellbound attention.
When he completed it, Tom held out his hand.