“They say you’re crazy,” suggested Connorton.
“And I guess they can prove it, too,” rejoined Hartley, cheerfully. “You’ve said the same thing yourself, and I know you wouldn’t lie about a mere trifle like that. Then the conductor, the engineer, and the fireman of the train we came down on will swear to it, and so will the bartender I had words with over my highball on the up trip, not to mention the cooper, the hotel clerk, a few bell-boys, and the policeman who arrested me. Yes, I guess I’m crazy, Connorton. Too bad, isn’t it?”
Drawn by F. R. Gruger
“APOLOGIZING PROFUSELY AS HE JANGLED DOWN THE INCLINE”
“It’s likely to be bad for you,” said Connorton.
“Oh, no,” returned Hartley, easily. “I’m not violent, you know, just mentally defective; unable to transact business, as you might say. They’ll find that out and let me go; but there will be the taint, the suspicion, the doubt. Very likely a conservator will be appointed when I get back home—some shrewd, sharp fellow, with a practical mind.”
Such a very impractical man was the inventor, and so very troublesome in his impracticality! Connorton could only begin at the beginning again, and go slow.
“Suppose we get you out,” he ventured, “what would you be willing to do?”
“What would you be willing to do?” retorted Hartley.