CHAPTER VIII
THE RUNAWAY
Deacon Blackford did not answer at once. He remained in his seat at his desk, looking first at one man and then at the other. Often his fingers would beat a drumming tattoo on the top of the desk, as though he were too nervous to keep still.
“Well!” said Harrison, sharply, “what’s it to be? We can’t wait all night!”
“Oh, we might give him a little more time,” suggested Denton. “I know what it is——”
“You keep still!” fiercely interrupted Harrison. “I know what I’m talking about! We’ve given him too much time as it is. We need the papers or the money, and we’re going to get what we want!”
“Well, I s’pose it’ll have to be as you say,” weakly agreed the other.
“That’s what it will!” was the prompt comment. “Come now, Blackford, settle up with us about this investment business. What’s it to be—the papers or the money?”
“Neither one!” said the deacon sharply. “I won’t give you any more money. And if you think I’m going to give up the valuable papers, which represent the only claim I have on you, you’re very much mistaken. You’ll get neither, and that’s my last word!”
This time he banged his fist down on the desk with a sudden energy that seemed to surprise even Harrison. An ugly look came over the face of the hardened man. He half closed his bold eyes and leaned forward toward the deacon, craning his neck forward like some big snake about to strike its victim.
“So that’s your answer, is it?” he asked.