Caleb did something to his nose with a handkerchief. The noise of it suggested he would blast Nat from his confinement with one terrific explosion.
“Yeah! Fodder told me, comin’ up on the ’bus. But to hell with how you got here! Point is, how we goin’ to get you out.”
“Judge Wright set my bail at ten thousand dollars. My old chum Bill did everything short of hocking his interest in the Telegraph, trying to raise it. Seventy-five hundred in cash-money was the best he could do. So I’ve just had to wait here—and wait and wait and wait. It’s been horrible. For the first time in my life I’ve found out how long an hour can be—or a day—or a week. That terrible helpless feeling—being shut up like an animal in a cage, powerless. It’s done for me.”
“Naw it ain’t done for you! You’re good as you ever was, and a darn sight better. But that’s neither here nor there—as the feller says when he was chasin’ the hen. Point is, you gotta get out where you can do some fightin’. How much’d she bust for? The box-shop?”
“Counting liabilities to stockholders, twenty-two thousand.”
“How much is the bank in for?”
“About twelve.”
“How much’d your old man swipe?”
“Close to ten.”
“B’damn, we’ll fix this lock-up business, quick enough! But why the devil didn’t your Ma come forward with her house?”