“Sure. Dat was me.”
“What do you mean by saying that you know me?”
“Aw, quit yer kiddin’, Sam!”
There was, it seemed to me, a reluctantly admiring note in his voice.
“Tell me, who do you think I am?” I asked patiently.
“Ahr ghee! You can’t string me, sport. Smooth Sam Fisher, is who you are, bo. I know you.”
I was too surprised to speak. Verily, some have greatness thrust upon them.
“I hain’t never seen youse, Sam,” he continued, “but I know it’s you. And I’ll tell youse how I doped it out. To begin with, there ain’t but you and your bunch and me and my bunch dat knows de Little Nugget’s on dis side at all. Dey sneaked him out of New York mighty slick. And I heard that you had come here after him. So when I runs into a guy dat’s trailin’ de kid down here, well, who’s it going to be if it ain’t youse? And when dat guy talks like a dude, like they all say you do, well, who’s it going to be if it ain’t youse? So quit yer kiddin’, Sam, and let’s get down to business.”
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Buck MacGinnis?” I said. I felt convinced that this could be no other than that celebrity.
“Dat’s right. Dere’s no need to keep up anyt’ing wit me, Sam. We’re bote on de same trail, so let’s get down to it.”
“One moment,” I said. “Would it surprise you to hear that my name is Burns, and that I am a master at the school?”
He expectorated admirably.
“Hell, no!” he said. “Gee, it’s just what you would be, Sam. I always heard youse had been one of dese rah-rah boys oncest. Say, it’s mighty smart of youse to be a perfessor. You’re right in on de ground floor.”
His voice became appealing.
“Say, Sam, don’t be a hawg. Let’s go fifty-fifty in dis deal. My bunch and me has come a hell of a number of miles on dis proposition, and dere ain’t no need for us to fall scrappin’ over it. Dere’s plenty for all of us. Old man Ford’ll cough up enough for everyone, and dere won’t be any fuss. Let’s sit in togedder on dis Nugget t’ing. It ain’t like as if it was an ornery two-by-four deal. I wouldn’t ask youse if it wasn’t big enough fir de whole bunch of us.”
As I said nothing, he proceeded.
“It ain’t square, Sam, to take advantage of your having education. If it was a square fight, and us bote wit de same chance, I wouldn’t say; but you bein’ a dude perfessor and gettin’ right into de place like dat ain’t right. Say, don’t be a hawg, Sam. Don’t swipe it all. Fifty-fifty! Does dat go?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You had better ask the real Sam. Good night.”
I walked past him and made for the school gates at my best pace. He trotted after me, pleading.
“Sam, give us a quarter, then.”
I walked on.
“Sam, don’t be a hawg!”
He broke into a run.
“Sam!” His voice lost its pleading tone and rasped menacingly.
“Gee, if I had me canister, youse wouldn’t be so flip! Listen here, you big cheese! You t’ink youse is de only t’ing in sight, huh? Well, we ain’t done yet. You’ll see yet. We’ll fix you! Youse had best watch out.”
I stopped and turned on him. “Look here, you fool,” I cried. “I tell you I am not Sam Fisher. Can’t you understand that you have got hold of the wrong man? My name is Burns—Burns.”
He expectorated—scornfully this time. He was a man slow by nature to receive ideas, but slower to rid himself of one that had contrived to force its way into what he probably called his brain. He had decided on the evidence that I was Smooth Sam Fisher, and no denials on my part were going to shake his belief. He looked on them merely as so many unsportsmanlike quibbles prompted by greed.
“Tell it to Sweeney!” was the form in which he crystallized his scepticism.
“Maybe you’ll say youse ain’t trailin’ de Nugget, huh?”
It was a home-thrust. If truth-telling has become a habit, one gets slowly off the mark when the moment arrives for the prudent lie. Quite against my will, I hesitated. Observant Mr. MacGinnis perceived my hesitation and expectorated triumphantly.
“May be you’ll say youse ain’t trailin’ de Nugget, huh?”
It was a home-thrust. If truth-telling has become a habit, one gets slowly off the mark when the moment arrives for the prudent lie. Quite against my will, I hesitated. Observant Mr. MacGinnis perceived my hesitation and expectorated triumphantly.
“Ah ghee!” he remarked. And then with a sudden return to ferocity, “All right, you Sam, you wait! We’ll fix you, and fix you good! See? Dat goes. You t’ink youse kin put it across us, huh? All right, you’ll get yours. You wait!”
And with these words he slid off into the night. From somewhere in the murky middle distance came a scornful “Hawg!” and he was gone, leaving me with a settled conviction that, while I had frequently had occasion, since my expedition to Sanstead began, to describe affairs as complex, their complexity had now reached its height. With a watchful Pinkerton’s man within, and a vengeful gang of rivals without, Sanstead House seemed likely to become an unrestful place for a young kidnapper with no previous experience.
The need for swift action had become imperative.
II
White, the butler, looking singularly unlike a detective—which, I suppose, is how a detective wants to look—was taking the air on the football field when I left the house next morning for a before-breakfast stroll. The sight of him filled me with a desire for firsthand information on the subject of the man Mr. MacGinnis supposed me to be and also of Mr. MacGinnis himself. I wanted to be assured that my friend Buck, despite appearances, was a placid person whose bark was worse than his bite.
White’s manner, at
