“Quiet,” urged Bob, who was listening at the keyhole of the strong room, the door of which was closed, but not locked.
After some general conversation, during which Bill emphasized his friendship for Hiram, the one-legged man asked:
“Haven’t you any idea, Hiram, where old Hank would be likely to bury that treasure of his? If you had you could go dig it up, you know, without waiting to find the box with the map in. If you had an idea, you know, I could help you dig. I only got one leg, that’s true, but I can dig. Look how I dug the fish worms.”
“Yes, you did dig worms, Bill,” admitted Hiram gently. “And I don’t see how you did it. It must have hurt your leg—I mean the stump where your wooden leg is fastened on. Why don’t you take off your wooden leg, Bill, and rest yourself. Come on, take off your wooden leg.”
“What’s that!” cried Bill, with more emphasis than the simple request seemed to call for. “Take off my leg? I guess not! I only take it off when I go to bed.”
“Well, take it off now, and go to bed,” urged Hiram. He was following a line of talk suggested by Bob, though the latter had not disclosed the reason therefor.
“What—take off my wooden leg and go to bed—in the morning?” cried Bill. “You must be crazy, Hiram! What’s gotten into you?”
“I want to see you take off that wooden leg, Bill,” was the mild reply. “I’d like to see that wooden leg off you.”
“Well, you aren’t going to see it off me!” snapped out Jolly Bill, who was anything but that now. “I’m not going to take off my wooden leg to please any one! There’s something wrong with you, Hiram. I can tell that.”
His voice was suspicious. Bob looked toward his silent chums. The time to act was approaching.