“Yes, sir, I think so,” answered the startled Toby. “You said you thought—”
“That it was a deep-laid plan amongst him and some other sharpers to hoodwink me; and I told you, Toby, that I'd be willing to bet money that it wouldn't be many days before somebody would hike along this way to talk it over—some go-between, you understand. Well, he's in there now, setting humped over his satchel like a spider watching a fly. He thinks I'm the fly. I want to know what he's got to say. I want to see his hand, you know, and I come out here to take a whiff of air and steady myself so I wouldn't blurt out what I thought too quick and drive him away. Keep your eye on him after he leaves me, Toby, and see which way he goes. He looks to me like some shyster lawyer who has taken up the matter and thinks he is smart enough to fool me. Somebody has invested three thousand in this scheme, and the deal is to be clinched this morning. Huh! I'll sorter tote 'im along, Toby, and see if I can get onto his game,” and, with a sly and yet nervous wink, Walton turned away.
“Yes, sir; all right now, sir,” he said, breezily, as he returned to his desk and lowered himself into his chair. “We've got this room all to ourselves, and are as snug as a bug in a rug, as the fellow said. Now, fire ahead.”
“Of course, it must be a sort o' disagreeable subject for you to talk about,” Whipple began, awkwardly, “and I'll admit to you, Mr. Walton, that I thought over it a powerful long time before I finally made up my mind to come.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Walton said, pulling his whiskers with his long hand—“of course, you naturally would.”
“Especially as Fred had no idea of what I had in view,” the Westerner said. “You see, I had to act wholly on my own responsibility.”
“Yes, I see—I see, sir.” It was only by an effort that Walton kept a sarcastic ring of irritation out of his voice, and he stroked into the roots of his beard a smile of contempt at such puerile attempts to deceive.
“And that's what makes the whole thing so hard on me,” the merchant went on. “You see, I took it on myself to act for Fred in, I might say, actual opposition to his wishes and judgment.”
Whipple then proceeded to give a full and accurate account of his first introduction to Fred and all that had happened to him since, withholding only his own name and the name of the town he was from. And while he talked, pausing to wipe his wet brow at times, or to clear his shaky voice, the banker watched him as a cat might a mouse. He held a pencil in his long, steady fingers, and kept the point of it on a pad of paper, raising his shrewd glance and lowering it as suited his fancy. Had he been an artist, old Simon might have sketched what to his understanding was the most subtly designing face he had ever seen. Here was a man, he told himself, who resorted even to the emotional methods of a ranting revivalist to gain his nefarious aims. It was a wonderful conception, but it wofully missed its mark, for it was being applied to a man who had no emotions. It was being applied to a man, too, who was as eagerly on the lookout for new tricks as a biologist for a new species of insect. What a weakling the fellow was, for a man of that age, and what fun it would be to suddenly undeceive him—let him know the manner of man he was attempting, in such a shallow way, to bunco!
“Yes, I decided not to wait longer,” Whipple concluded, with a sigh. “I didn't intend to act till the remaining three thousand was paid; but, as I say, I—”