The Mystery Megapack

whetted that he would plunge in, head over heels, within a few hours. The reason for it, no doubt, was Whitecotton’s fear that George Bascom, to all appearances the penniless, desperate possessor of a two-hundred-thousand dollar secret, would discover that he, the banker, was no longer the owner of the treasure-bearing twenty acres. George, too, must have told his story well and convincingly for the cautious, canny miser to have swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker.
    But that is just what happened, and Mr. Clackworthy, who had planned many further elaborate details, was totally unprepared to receive a summons from Flint Whitecotton the next morning.
    “Mr. Clackworthy,” began the banker, “perhaps I was—um—rather hasty with you during our last talk. However, I have—ah—been thinking it over, and I have decided that I owe it as my duty as a—ah—a public-spirited citizen to take an interest in this budding enterprise of yours. That letter you showed to me, in which you were offered twenty thousand dollars to sell out—that in itself shows that your venture must have merit.”
    Mr. Clackworthy looked discouraged.
    “I was just on the verge of sending a wire to the New York firm, telling them that I would accept twenty-five thousand dollars and get out. They expected, of course, to raise the ante when they offered twenty thousand dollars. The truth of it is, Mr. Whitecotton, that I’m too small a fellow to fight the big combine; that’s what scared off the capital that had been promised me. My hands are up; I quit. There’s no use in talking things over; I’m going to sell out.”
    “I wouldn’t do that,” interposed Banker Whitecotton hastily. “Now why can’t we form a company? Perhaps I would put up ten thousand dollars, but—um—I would, of course, expect to control.”
    “I’d rather sell out than be frozen out later,” retorted Mr. Clackworthy shrewdly. “No, so long as I’m whipped, I’ll take all the money I can get.” He started to get from his chair, but the banker stopped him insistently. They talked for two long, haggling hours, and at length, cold sweat pouring from his bald forehead, Flint Whitecotton, the stingiest man whom Amos Clackworthy had ever done business with, inclined his head slowly, reluctantly; he agreed to give twenty-five thousand dollars.
    * * * *
    Again Mr. Clackworthy and The Early Bird were passengers on the non-Pullman train on the branch line which terminated at Alschoola. This time, however, they were bound away from the shabby, unprogressive town, for which James was thankful; within the wallet of the master confidence man reposed twenty-five thousand dollars in currency, and for this they were both thankful.
    But The Early Bird’s forehead was corrugated with a puzzled frown.
    “I ain’t got it all through the old bean yet, boss,” he admitted. “You’re tryin’ to tell me that the old dollar squeezer come across with twenty-five thousand smackers because he swallowed George Bascom’s fairy tale about there bein’ a coupla hundred thousand in the yellow stuff in the terra firma of that clay farm you bought off’n him for a coupla thousand berries?”
    “It was realism, that did the trick, my dear James,” said Mr. Clackworthy, chuckling. “That, and his naturally greedy, grasping nature. Moreover, he thought he was playing safe so far as his twenty-five thousand is concerned. Before he closed with me, he sent a wire to The Gotham Chemical Corporation, asking them if they would give twenty-five thousand dollars to buy me out; since The Gotham Chemical Corporation is Pop Blanchard, the answer was ‘Yes.’ He didn’t suspect a flimflam, because he couldn’t imagine any sane man who would risk paying out two thousand dollars on a long chance.”
    “What I’m gettin’ at, boss,” said The Early Bird, “is, what was the hocus-pocus that made him fall for George Bascom’s fake about that buried gold?”
    “You’re hopeless,” and Mr. Clackworthy sighed. “You read the newspapers every day, too. Certainly you should recall that for some time there has been a Congressional inquiry regarding a certain war slacker named Grover Blindhouse, who escaped from army imprisonment and made his way to Europe. The Congressional inquiry brought out that the young man’s mother, the widow of a wealthy Pennsylvania brewer, got together the astounding sum of two hundred thousand dollars in cash and buried it not many miles from Philadelphia for