XIV
Old Mike went to sleep quickly; but Hal had not worked for several days, and had exciting thoughts to keep him awake. He had been lying quiet for a couple of hours, when he became aware that someone was moving in the room. There was a lamp burning dimly, and through half-closed eyes he made out one of the men lifting himself to a sitting position. At first he could not be sure which one it was, but finally he recognised the Greek.
Hal lay motionless, and after a minute or so he stole another look and saw the man crouching and listening, his hands still on the floor. Through half opened eyelids Hal continued to steal glimpses, while the other rose and tiptoed towards him, stepping carefully over the sleeping forms.
Hal did his best to simulate the breathing of sleep: no easy matter, with the man stooping over him, and a knife-thrust as one of the possibilities of the situation. He took the chance, however; and after what seemed an age, he felt the man’s fingers lightly touch his side. They moved down to his coat-pocket.
“Going to search me!” thought Hal; and waited, expecting the hand to travel to other pockets. But after what seemed an interminable period, he realised that Apostolikas had risen again, and was stepping back to his place. In a minute more he had lain down, and all was still in the cabin.
Hal’s hand moved to the pocket, and his fingers slid inside. They touched something, which he recognised instantly as a roll of bills.
“I see!” thought he. “A frame-up!” And he laughed to himself, his mind going back to early boyhood—to a dilapidated trunk in the attic of his home, containing storybooks that his father had owned. He could see them now, with their worn brown covers and crude pictures: “The Luck and Pluck Series,” by Horatio Alger; “Live or Die,” “Rough and Ready,” etc. How he had thrilled over the story of the country-boy who comes to the city, and meets the villain who robs his employer’s cash-drawer and drops the key of it into the hero’s pocket! Evidently someone connected with the General Fuel Company had read Horatio Alger!
Hal realised that he could not be too quick about getting those bills out of his pocket. He thought of returning them to “Judas,” but decided that he would save them for Edstrom, who was likely to need money before long. He gave the Greek half an hour to go to sleep, then with his pocketknife he gently picked out a hole in the cinders of the floor and buried the money as best he could. After which he wormed his way to another place, and lay thinking.
XV
Would they wait until morning, or would they come soon? He was inclined to the latter guess, so he was only slightly startled when, an hour or two later, he heard the knob of the cabin-door turned. A moment later came a crash and the door was burst open, with the shoulder of a heavy man behind it.
The room was in confusion in a second. Men sprang to their feet, crying out; others sat up bewildered, still half asleep. The room was bright from an electric torch in the hands of one of the invaders. “There’s the fellow!” cried a voice, which Hal instantly recognised as belonging to Jeff Cotton, the camp-marshal. “Stick ’em up, there! You, Joe Smith!” Hal did not wait to see the glint of the marshal’s revolver.
There followed a silence. As this drama was being staged for the benefit of the other men, it was necessary to give them time to get thoroughly awake, and to get their eyes used to the light. Meantime Hal stood, his hands in the air. Behind the torch he could make out the faces of the marshal, Bud Adams, Alec Stone, Jake Predovich, and two or three others.
“Now, men,” said Cotton, at last, “you are some of the fellows that want a check-weighman. And this is the man you chose. Is that right?”
There was no answer.
“I’m going to show you the kind of fellow he is. He came to Mr. Stone here and offered to sell you out.”
“It’s a lie, men,” said Hal, quietly.
“He took some money from Mr. Stone to sell you out!” insisted the marshal.
“It’s a lie,” said Hal, again.
“He’s got that money now!” cried the other.
And Hal cried, in turn, “They are trying to frame something on me, boys! Don’t let them fool you!”
“Shut up,” commanded the marshal; then, to the men, “I’ll show you. I think he’s got that money on him now. Jake, search him.”
The store-clerk advanced.
“Watch out, boys!” exclaimed Hal. “They will put something in my pockets.” And then to Old Mike, who had started angrily forward, “It’s all right, Mike! Let them alone!”
“Jake, take off your coat,” ordered Cotton. “Roll up your sleeves. Show your hands.”
It was for all the world like the performance of a prestidigitator. The little Jew took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves above his elbows. He exhibited his hands to the audience, turning them this way and that; then, keeping them out in front of him, he came slowly towards Hal, like a hypnotist about to put him to sleep.
“Watch him!” said Cotton. “He’s got that money on him, I know.”
“Look sharp!” cried Hal. “If it isn’t there, they’ll put it there.”
“Keep your hands up, young fellow,” commanded the marshal. “Keep back from him there!” This last to Mike Sikoria and the other spectators, who were pressing nearer, peering over one another’s shoulders.
It was all
