The Mystery Megapack

capital which had been swallowed up in his foolish, visionary scheme represented frugal economies.
    When Budkins had departed, The Early Bird let his gaze wander from the cracked washbasin and pitcher on the rickety washstand in the corner of the room, to rest disgustedly on Mr. Clackworthy’s face.
    “Say!” he exploded. “What’s the grand idear? Are we goin’ around the country weedin’ back some other guy’s graft, or are we out to grab a little kale on our own hook?”
    Mr. Clackworthy looked thoughtful for a moment.
    “James,” he said slowly, “during our association, have I ever taken money from a poor man? Have I ever trimmed an honest man? In my own defense, I answer, ‘No!’ Every man who has contributed to us, has fallen victim to his own avarice.
    “The idea, my dear James, is to build a neat little trap for the local Midas known as Flint Whitecotton; a man, if my surmise is correct, as hard as his front name. The idea, my indignant partner in crime, is to convince Banker Whitecotton that he had a grievous financial mistake in optioning that twenty-acre tract of his on the edge of town.”
    “An’ sell the option back to him, huh? What’s the lay? You ain’t flirtin’ with the idear that you’re gonna make him fall for no sculptor’s clay racket?”
    “Hardly!” Mr. Clackworthy laughed. “Hardly that, I fear that our hard-headed, tight-fisted banker is not so credulous as Mr. Burkin. Bestir yourself, and we shall have a look at that twenty acres of clay land.”
    The tract was but three miles from town, and thirty minutes later the two pursuers of easy money had made the trip in a hired flivver and were looking over the property. It was, indeed, as worthless-looking a piece of real estate as one might expect to find in the entire State of Pennsylvania. Half of it was a tangle of starved underbrush, and the remaining part of it was devoid of any growing thing, for the whitish clay was lacking in fertility. In the hot sun it was baked brick hard.
    For a quarter of an hour Mr. Clackworthy devoted himself to a survey of the property, his brows knitted in thought. He noticed particularly that the State highway ran alongside the twenty acres. Although he nodded, The Early Bird’s wrath grew apace.
    “And now,” said the master confidence man, “we will go back and proceed to take Mr. Whitecotton’s measure.”
    “His name may be cotton,” grunted James, “but I’ll lay a li’le bet that you ain’t gonna pick him.”
    “That’s a sporting proposition. Any amount you like.”
    “A hundred seeds, boss.” He cast a last disgusted glance at the desolate twenty acres and shook his head. It didn’t seem humanly possible that any sane man would give up good money for it; he thought of the mysterious news item which had inspired the idea—and wondered with a curiosity which burned almost to fever heat.
    III.
    The building which housed the Alschoola State Bank gave no outward appearance of opulence, and neither did Mr. Flint Whitecotton, the bank’s president. He wore a suit even more shabby than was the building; one judged his favorite axiom to be “A penny saved is a penny earned.” The suit was frayed, threadbare, and darned in several places. The cuffs of his shirt wore aged whiskers; his shoes were unshined, as if he begrudged the cost of the polish necessary to give them a gloss; even the smoothness of his head was an item of economy. It did away with the necessity of barber bills.
    Flint Whitecotton had a leathery skin, drawn drum tight over his bones. His eyes held a cold, freezing quality, and, as the bank door opened that afternoon, he frowned in black disfavor at the sinful extravagance as represented by Mr. Amos Clackworthy’s perfect harmony of attire. Such sartorial prodigality, in the opinion of Mr. Whitecotton, was downright criminal.
    Wasting no time in the little pleasantries generally attending a formal introduction, Mr. Clackworthy opened his wallet and put in front of the banker five bills, each of one thousand dollars’ denomination. Mr. Whitecotton’s eyes bulged.
    “I wish to open an account,” said the master confidence man crisply. “My name is Clackworthy, my home Chicago. If you desire business references—” He knew there would not be a call for them, although he could readily have supplied them; a five-thousand-dollar cash deposit speaks for itself. Worshipfully, the banker’s fingers went out and began to stroke the beloved