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Updated: June 20, 2025
His troubles and his trials had not wholly dulled youth's sense of the ludicrous in Vaniman. He sat down that evening to the meal that had been prepared by Guard Wagg, late of the state prison, for three fugitive convicts, also late of that institution. The chimney of the kerosene lamp was smoky and the light was dim, therefore Vaniman's grin was hidden from his companions.
Always in their brief but good-natured interviews the evangelist called the young man "Joseph." Elias took Vaniman's arm and walked along with him. "I'm afraid, Prophet Elias, that you'll provoke Mr. Britt too far. Take my advice. Keep away from him for a time."
He was regarding Britt as his chief witness and principal exhibit in the exposure he proposed to lay before the people of Egypt. In the back of Vaniman's head there may have been some sort of consideration for the man who had ruined him scruples against leaving him with those renegades who had tortured him.
Please don't make me crawl any more'n I'm doing!" It was an appeal to Youth's hale generosity and generosity dominated all the other qualities in Vaniman's nature. "I'll stay, Mr. Britt," he blurted. "After what you have said I can't help staying." The banker rose and stretched out his hand. "Men can put more into a grip of the fist than women can into an afternoon of gabble, Frank."
The confinement behind prison bars had tested Vaniman's powers of endurance; this everlasting espionage by the men who had set themselves over him tried him still more bitterly. They lacked the sanction of the law which even an innocent man respects while he chafes. While that situation continued he was prevented from taking any step toward clearing up his tangled affairs.
It has nothing to do with my honesty." "Well, there's another motto about 'blood will tell," sneered Britt. Vaniman stepped forward, honestly indignant, manfully resolute. "Let me tell you, sir, that the letter you hold there no matter who wrote it concerns a good man who is dead. He was the scapegoat of one of those big financiers." Vaniman's lip curled.
He stamped to and fro in his cell, after the bolts had been driven for the night; he lamented and he cursed, muffling his tones. And a man named Bartley Wagg, having taken it upon himself to keep close tabs on Vaniman's state of mind, noted the prisoner's rebellious restlessness with deepening interest and coupled a lot of steady pondering with his furtive espionage. Wagg was a prison guard.
But a sound that was repeated regularly he could not understand, nor could he determine the direction from which it came. It was sound diffused like the fog itself. It was mellowed by distance. He recognized the notes as the winding of some sort of a horn or trump. Vaniman's ears were telling him nothing definite.
The cashier was not enduring inspection with an air that did credit to his promise to keep a secret. Britt had made a breach in the wall of Vaniman's mental defense by the means of that letter and its implied accusation; Britt was taking advantage of that breach.
It was plain that they intended to unlock the secret of the money by the use of Britt, going to any lengths of brutality the occasion might demand. To get at Britt they would be obliged to invade the Harnden home. The thought of what might develop from that sortie wrought havoc in Vaniman's soul!
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