For two cents I'd jail the old man and you, too!"
This was the real Mr. Saunders. He usually kept this side of his nature for home use; his wife was well acquainted with it.
Captain Eri was evidently frightened. His manner had become almost apologetic.
"Well," he said, "I wouldn't do that if I was you, Web. I heard you tell Elsie last night she wa'n't payin' you enough, and I thought--"
"I know what you thought. You thought you could scare me. You didn't know I had the coat and hat, did you? Well, what I said I stand by. The girl AIN'T payin' me enough. Fourteen dollars a week she gits, and she's only been givin' up ten. I want more. I want--"
But here Captain Eri interrupted him.
"I guess that 'll do," he said calmly. "You've told me what I wanted to know. Ten dollars a week sence the middle of November. 'Bout seventy dollars, rough figgerin'. Now, then, hand it over."
"What?"
"Hand over that seventy dollars."
"Hand over hell! What are you talkin' 'bout?"
The Captain rose and, leaning over, shook his forefinger in Mr. Saunders' flabby red face.
"You low-lived, thievin' rascal," he said, "I'm givin' you a chance you don't deserve. Either you'll pay me that money you've stole from that girl or I'll walk out of that door, and when I come in again the sheriff 'll be with me. Now, which 'll it be? Think quick."
Web's triumphant expression was gone, and rage and malice had taken its place. He saw, now, that the Captain had tricked him into telling more than he ought. But he burst out again, tripping over words in his excitement.
"Think!" he yelled. "I don't need to think. Bring in your sheriff. I'll march down to your house and I'll show him the man that set fire to my buildin'. What 'll you and that snivelin' granddaughter of his do then? You make off to think a turrible lot of the old prayer-machine 'cause he's your chum. How'd you like to see him took up for a firebug, hey?"
"I ain't afraid of that."
"You ain't? You AIN'T! Why not?"
"'Cause he's gone where you can't git at him. He died jest afore I left the house."
Mr. Saunders' brandished fist fell heavily on the arm of his chair. His face turned white in patches, and then flamed red again.
"Died!" he gasped.
"Died."
"You--you're a liar!"
"No, I ain't. John Baxter's dead. He was a chum of mine--you're right there--and if I'd known a sneak like you was after him I'd have been here long afore this. Why, you--"
The Captain's voice shook, but he restrained himself and went on.
"Now, you see where you stand, don't you? Long's John lived you had the proof to convict him; I'll own up to that much. I hid the coat; I smashed the bottle. The hat I didn't know 'bout. I might have told you at fust that all that didn't amount to anything, but I thought I'd wait and let you tell me what more I wanted to know. John Baxter's gone, poor feller, and all your proof ain't worth a cent. Not one red cent. Understand?"
It was quite evident that Mr. Saunders did understand, for his countenance showed it. But the bluster was not out of him yet.
"All right," he said. "Anyhow, the girl's left, and if she don't pay I'll show her granddad up for what he was. And I'll show you up, too. Yes, I will!" he shouted, as this possibility began to dawn on him. "I'll let folks know how you hid that coat and--and all the rest of it."
"No, you won't."
"Why won't I?"
"'Cause you won't dare to. You've been hittin' at a sick man through a girl; neither of 'em could hit back. But now you're doin' bus'ness with me, and I ain't sick. If you open your mouth to anybody,--if you let a soul know who set that fire,--I'll walk straight to Jedge Baker, and I'll tell him the whole story. I'll tell him what I did and why I did it. And THEN I'll tell him what you did--how you bullied money out of that girl that hadn't no more to do with the fire than a baby. If it comes to facin' a jury I'll take my chances, but how 'bout you? You, runnin' a town nuisance that the s'lectmen are talkin' of stoppin' already; sellin' rum by the drink when your license says it shan't be sold 'cept by the bottle. Where'll YOUR character land you on a charge of blackmail?
"And another thing. The folks in this town knew John Baxter afore he was like what he's been lately. A good many of 'em swore by him--yes, sir, by mighty, some of 'em loved him! This is a law-abidin' town, but s'pose--jest s'pose I should go to some of the fellers that used to sail with him, and tell 'em what you've been up to. Think you'd stay here long? _I_ think you'd move out--on a rail."
Captain Eri paused and sat on the arm of his chair, grimly watching his opponent, whose turn for thinking had come. The face of the billiard magnate was an interesting study in expression during the Captain's speech. From excited triumph it had fallen to fear and dejection; and now, out of the wreck, was appearing once more the oily smile, the sugared sweetness of the every-day Mr. Saunders.
"Now, Cap'n Hedge," purred the reconstructed one, "you and me has always been good friends. We hadn't ought to fight like this. I don't think either of us wants to go to court. Let's see if we can't fix the thing up some way."
"We'll fix it up when you pay me the seventy dollars."
"Now, Cap'n Hedge, 'tain't likely I've got seventy dollars in my pocket. Seems to me you're pretty hard on a poor feller that's jest been burnt out. I think we'd ought to--"
"How much HAVE you got?"
After a good deal of talk and protestation Mr. Saunders acknowledged being the possessor of twenty-six dollars, divided between the cash drawer and his pocket. This he reluctantly handed to the Captain.
Then the Captain demanded pen, ink, and paper; and when they were brought he laboriously wrote out a screed to the effect that Webster Saunders had received of Elsie Preston forty-four dollars, which sum he promised to pay on demand.
"There," he said, pushing the writing materials across the table. "Sign that."
At first Mr. Saunders positively refused to sign. Then he intimated that he had rather wait and think it over a little while. Finally he affixed his signature and spitefully threw the pen across the room.
Captain Eri folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he rose and put on his pea jacket.
"Now, there's jest one thing more," he said. "Trot out that coat and hat."
"What do you mean?"
"Trot out that coat and hat of John's. I want 'em."
"I shan't do it."
"All right, then. It's all off. I'll step over and see the Jedge. You'll hear from him and me later."
"Hold on a minute, Cap'n. You're in such a everlastin' hurry. I don't care anything 'bout the old duds, but I don't know's I know where they are. Seems to me they're up to the house somewheres. I'll give 'em to you to-morrer."
"You'll give 'em to me right now. I'll tend shop while you go after 'em."
For a moment it looked as though the man of business would rebel outright. But the Captain was so calm, and evidently so determined to do exactly what he promised, that "Web" gave up in despair. Muttering that maybe they were "'round the place, after all," he went into the back room and reappeared with the burned coat and the scorched white felt hat. Slamming them down on the counter, he said sulkily, "There they be. Any more of my prop'ty you'd like to have?"
Captain Eri didn't answer. Coolly tearing off several sheets