"What's that?" said the old gentleman, jumping up and speaking very fiercely. Then he sat down again. "Of course you have," he said, calmly. "Otherwise how would you be here, and how would you be able to carry it away?" And Harry thought it best not to contradict him again.
"There is the lot over there," said the old gentleman, indicating another pile of canvas bags just beyond, and to Harry's left. "It isn't much of a load when you know how to carry it."
"Am I to carry all that?" asked Harry; for the bags looked as though they might weigh a ton.
"And a very light load," said the old gentleman, nodding and smiling. "Sit down." He pointed at the bags.
Harry was glad of the invitation, though an invitation to supper or to a drop of that cooling lemonade would have pleased him more. The old gentleman seemed to divine his thoughts, for he pointed at the lemonade bowl, and said, with a smack of his lips, "A little later." Then he motioned again to the pile of coin-bags. Harry threw himself down on them. Then a dreadful feeling went through him. He felt as though he were afire. The bags were hot—as hot as boiling water—so hot that he sprang from them with a scream.
"YOU ARE AN IMPOSTOR. YOU ARE A THIEF."
"What's that?" said the old gentleman, springing up. "Then you're not the Czar's messenger. You haven't the key. You are an impostor. You are a thief."
He caught up one of the canvas bags on which he had been sitting. It burst, and the yellow gold pieces flew out in a shower on Harry's head. Each of them seemed to burn a hole where it struck. Harry fell to the floor. The old gentleman caught up another bag and poured its contents over Harry. His face had the expression of a fiend now. More and more gold he poured on Harry's prostrate form, until all but his head was quite hidden from view. Each gold piece burned, and burned, and burned. The heat was intolerable. Harry screamed with the pain of it.
"What's the matter with you, Holt?" said a voice in his ear. The chinking of the gold pieces as they fell seemed like some old familiar sound. Some one took hold of his shoulder, and the voice said again, "Here, what's the matter with you!" The chinking now was like the clicking of the telegraph instruments in the operating-room. Harry opened his eyes and looked about him. The old gentleman was gone; the bags of gold were gone. The old desk was under his arm, and the chief operator was bending over him.