"I won't," said Frank, sullenly. "I can't."

"You can, and you will," retorted the other, firmly; "or I'll turn those notes over to my lawyer for collection, inside of twenty-four hours, and the little story of your life will be told to all the world.

My young Christian friend, you can't afford to tell _me_ that you won't."

For another hour they sat before the fire, talking and planning, and then Frank drove alone, through the mud and rain, back to the city, reaching his home just before day.

A few nights later, as d.i.c.k sat at his work in Mr. Wicks' office, a rubber-tired buggy drove slowly past close to the curbing. Through the big front window, d.i.c.k could be seen plainly as he bent over his desk, just inside an inner room, his back toward the door, which stood open.

A burly negro leaped to the sidewalk without stopping the carriage.

So absorbed was d.i.c.k with the task before him, that he did not hear the outer door of the office open and close again; and so quickly did the negro move that he stood within the room where d.i.c.k sat before the latter was aware of his presence.

When d.i.c.k did raise his head, he looked straight into the muzzle of a big revolver.

"Don't move er ye'r a goner," growled the black giant; and reaching out with his free hand he swung to the door between the rooms, thus cutting off the view from the street.

d.i.c.k smiled pleasantly as though his visitor had called in the ordinary way. "What can I do for you?" he asked, politely.

"Yo jest move 'way from dat 'ar desk fust; den we kin talk. I don'

'spect you's got a gun handy, an' we don' want no foolin'."

d.i.c.k laughed aloud as though the other had made a good joke. "All right, boss; just as you say." And leaving his chair he seated himself on the edge of a table in the center of the room. But the negro did not notice that he had placed himself so that a heavy gla.s.s paper-weight was just hidden by his right leg.

"Better take a seat yourself," continued d.i.c.k cordially. "Might as well be comfortable. How are the wife and babies?"

The negro showed his teeth in a broad grin as he dropped into the revolving chair d.i.c.k had just vacated. "Dey's well, tank yo' kindly sah." Then as he looked at the young man's careless att.i.tude and smiling face, he burst forth, admiringly: "Dey done tole me as how yo' wor'

a cool cuss an' mighty bad to han'le; but fo' G.o.d I nebber seed nothin'

like hit. Aint yo' skeered'?"

d.i.c.k threw up his head and laughed heartily. "Sure I'm scared," he said. "Don't you see how I'm shaking? I expect I'll faint in a minute if you don't put up that gun."

The negro scowled fiercely. "No yo' don't. Yo' kan't come dat on dis chile. Dat gun stay pinted jus' lak she is; an' hit goes off too ef yo' don' do what I says, mighty sudden."

"Just as you say," replied d.i.c.k, cheerfully. "But what do you want me to do?"

"I wants yo' to unlock dat air safe."

"Can't do it. I don't know the combination."

"Huh," the negro grunted. "Yo' kan't gib me no such guff es dat.

Move sudden now."

"You're making a mistake," said d.i.c.k, earnestly. "I have only desk room here. I don't work for Mr. Wicks, and have no business with the safe. Besides, they don't keep money there anyway."

"Taint money I'm after dis trip, mistah; hit's papers. Dey's in a big leather pocket-book, tied with er sho' string."

Like a flash, d.i.c.k understood. The papers were in the safe, but as he said, he did not know the combination. "Papers?" he said, in a tone of surprise, in order to gain time.

"Yes sah, papers; dat yo' keeps in dar." He nodded toward the safe.

"I wants em quick." The hand that held the revolver came slowly to a level with the dark face.

"Shoot if you want to," said d.i.c.k, easily, "but I'm telling you the truth. I don't know how to open the safe."

The negro looked puzzled, and d.i.c.k, seeing his advantage instantly, let his hand fall easily on his leg, close to the paper weight.

"Besides," he said carelessly, "if its my papers you want, that's my desk behind--" He checked himself suddenly as though he had said more than he intended.

The negro's face lighted at what he thought was d.i.c.k's mistake, and forgetting himself, half turned in the revolving chair, while the muzzle of the revolver was shifted for just the fraction of a second.

It was enough. With the quickness of a serpent, d.i.c.k's hand shot out, and the heavy weight caught the negro above the right ear, and with a groan he slid from the chair to the floor.

When the black ruffian regained consciousness, d.i.c.k was still sitting on the edge of the table, calmly swinging his feet, but in his hand was his visitor's weapon.

"Well," he said, quietly, "you've had quite a nap. Do you feel better?

Or do you think one of these pills would help you?" He slowly c.o.c.ked and raised the revolver.

"Don't shoot. Don't shoot, sah."

"Why not?" said d.i.c.k, coldly, but with the smile still on his face.

That smile did the business. Oaths and threats the black man could understand; but a man who looked deliberately along a c.o.c.ked revolver, with a smile on his face, was too much for him. He begged and pleaded for his life.

"Tell me who sent you here?"

"Mistah Goodrich."

d.i.c.k was startled, though his face showed no surprise.

"The old gentleman?"

"'No sah, Mistah Frank."

"How did he know that I had any papers?"

"I don' know sah; he only said as how he wanted dem; an' he's er waitin'

'round de cornah in de kerrige."

This was a new feature in the situation. d.i.c.k was puzzled. At last he stepped to the phone and, still covering the negro with the revolver, he rang up central and called for Mr. Wicks' residence. When the answer came, he said easily, "Excuse me for disturbing you, Mr. Wicks, but I have a man here in the office who wants to get into your safe, and I need you badly. You had better come in the back way."

"I'll be with you in a shake," was the reply; "hold him down till I get there." And a few minutes later the old gentleman knocked at the door. d.i.c.k admitted him and then burst into a hearty laugh at his strange appearance; for in his haste, Uncle Bobbie had simply pulled on a pair of rubber boots and donned an overcoat. With the exception of these articles, he was in his nightshirt and cap. In his hand, he carried a pistol half as long as his arm; but he was as calm as d.i.c.k himself, though breathing hard. "To-be-sure," he puffed, "I'm--so--plagey--fat--can't hurry--worth cent--wind's no good--have to take--to smokin' agin--sure."

d.i.c.k explained the situation in a few words; "I wouldn't have called you sir, if young Goodrich were not in it. But--but--you see--I don't know what to do," he finished, lamely.

"To-be-sure," said Uncle Bobbie, "I know. To-be-sure. Sometimes a bad feller like him gets tangled up with good people in such a way you jist got t'er let 'em alone; tares an' wheat you know; tares and wheat.

To-be-sure Christianity aint 'rithmetic, and you can't save souls like you'd do problems in long division, ner count results like you'd figger interest. What'd ye say?--Suppose you skip down to the corner and fetch him up here."

d.i.c.k glanced at the negro. "Never you mind him," said the old gentleman, with a fierce scowl. "Your uncle'll shoot the blamed head off him if he so much as bats an eye; he knows it too." And he trained the long gun on the trembling black.

d.i.c.k slipped out of the back door and soon returned holding Frank firmly by the collar. As they entered, Uncle Bobbie said to the negro, "Now's yer chance, Bill; git out quick 'fore we change our minds." And the astonished darkey bolted.

"Now Frank," said the old gentleman kindly, when d.i.c.k had placed his prisoner in a chair, "tell us all about it." And young Goodrich, too frightened almost to speak above a whisper, told the whole miserable story.