The Mystery Megapack

occupying generous amounts of space almost daily. Question me no further, James; this is a little guessing contest of mine. Try your luck at it.”
    “You know I ain’t got a chance.”
    “Very well, I’ll add a bit more,” said Mr. Clackworthy, “Our mutual friend and often able assistant, George Bascom, will arrive in Alschoola day after tomorrow. He will remain entire stranger to both of us. We’ve never seen him before; we don’t know him from Adam’s off-ox.
    “George will appear in Alschoola garbed in tatters which will make a Russian refugee look like Beau Brummel. He is empty of pocket and desperate of mind; he appeals to Banker Whitecotton. Mr. Whitecotton is skeptical and at the same time credulous. He doesn’t believe George’s story, but it has such a ring of truth, backed up by such a wealth of newspaper accounts, that he dare not ignore the chance of finding out if it is really true that his clay land is worth, not a mere two thousand dollars, but a hundred times that sum.”
    “Two hundred thousand smackers?” gasped The Early Bird.
    “Your multiplication is correct,” and Mr. Clackworthy nodded. “Mr. Whitecotton will be half convinced that his clay farm is worth two hundred thousand dollars in cash. And, on the evening of the day after tomorrow, George will proceed to convince him entirely—by a personally conducted visit to this very spot. Does it now become clear to you, my dear James?”
    “Huh! Just as clear, boss, as a cloudy day on Lake Mich,” The Early Bird remarked, then groaned. “Come on an’ gimme a look-in.”
    Mr. Clackworthy shook his head teasingly and glanced at his watch.
    “Come to think about it,” he murmured, “I’ll have to be getting to the bank for a little talk with Mr. Whitecotton. He’s got a sight draft on me for thirty-two hundred dollars, and I’ve only eighteen hundred on deposit to meet it.”
    “Whatcha talkin’ about? Ain’tcha got five thousand iron men in your kick?”
    “True enough,” said the master confidence man, “but what is in my pocket is not for Mr. Whitecotton to know. He is to be only aware that of the five thousand dollars I deposited in his bank, just one thousand eight hundred dollars remain. And—I don’t want to meet the draft, anyhow. It’s one that Pop Blanchard sent here; just a little touch in realism.”
    Half an hour later, Mr. Clackworthy, not looking so cheerful as he inwardly felt, was closeted with the local banker. Almost accusingly, Mr. Whitecotton produced the sight draft, a demand that one Mr. Amos Clackworthy pay over the sum of three thousand two hundred dollars forthwith.
    “What about this?” he demanded.
    “It’s for some machinery that I have ordered, and which won’t be shipped until it is paid,” said Mr. Clackworthy with apparent glumness. “I need that machinery, and I need it bad. I can’t get started until I have it; things haven’t gone as smoothly as I had anticipated, and I hope that you—”
    “There is but one question before me,” cut in the banker icily. “Have you the money to meet this draft, or shall I sent it back unpaid?”
    “You’ve got to help me out, Mr. Whitecotton,” pleaded Mr. Clackworthy, “I’ve got a balance of one thousand eight hundred dollars on deposit; I need one thousand four hundred dollars to meet the draft. I paid you two thousand dollars for the land; suppose you lend me one thousand four hundred dollars on a ten-day note, with the land as security.”
    Banker Whitecotton laughed shrilly.
    “Lend you one thousand four hundred dollars on that pile of clay?” he snorted. “It isn’t worth fifty dollars an acre. I wouldn’t give you thirty dollars an acre for it.”
    “But I paid you a hundred an acre.”
    “A bargain is a bargain,” retorted the banker. “No one asked you to buy that land from me. Don’t argue; I won’t lend you a dollar on your hare-brained scheme.”
    “That’s because you don’t understand the chemical possibilities,” persisted Mr. Clackworthy with just as much earnestness as if he had really expected to win the man over. He launched into a long, apparently technical, explanation of his contemplated process of extracting certain expensive chemicals from that peculiar whitish loam—all of which was Greek to the Alschoola banker.
    “See here, Mr. Whitecotton,” he went on, “I stand on the brink of success or failure. There has been a slight hitch in my plans; the money I expect to get has not come