d. I'm suggesting that you leave town
to-night. Tuck that cash away on yourself and duck out of sight."

Having secured the money and placed that powerful argument in the young
man's hands, Mr. Fogg's hurry and anxiety seemed to be over. When he had
seen the packet buttoned inside Boyne's coat he smiled.

"The trade is clinched and the job is done, son, and I feel sure that,
being a healthy young American citizen with plenty of cash to pay your
way, you're not going to let go that cash nor do any foolish squealing."

"I've gone too far to back out," admitted Boyne, patting the outside of
his coat. "But it seems like a dream."

"I've heard a little piece of good news while I've been running
around--forgot to tell you," said Fogg, in a matter-of-fact way.
"That fool attendant at the hospital must have misunderstood me, or I
misunderstood him. Franklin isn't dead."

"He-isn't-dead?"

"No. Last report is that he's better this forenoon. But that's the way
some of these crazy attendants mix things up when anybody inquires at a
hospital. Now, of course, seeing that the registered copy is on its way
and Franklin is getting better, that's all the more reason why you don't
care to hang around these diggings and be annoyed. I've got a scheme. It
will take you out of town in a very quiet style. I have telephoned down
to the docks, and there's a Vose freighter in here discharging rails. Do
you live at home or at a boarding-place?"

"I board," said Boyne, still wrestling with the sickening information
that he had betrayed an employer who was alive; somehow the sentiment
that it was equally base to betray a deceased employer had not impressed
itself on his benumbed conscience. He was now keenly aware that he
feared to meet up with a living and indignant Lawyer Franklin. Fogg
questioned, and Boyne gave his boarding-house address.

"We'll drive there, and I'll wait outside in the cab until you can
scratch together a gripful of your things. Don't load yourself down too
much. Remember, you've got plenty of cash in your pockets."

A little later Fogg escorted the young man up the gang-plank of the
_Nequasset_, from whose hold the last of her load of clanging rails was
being derricked by panting windlass engines. To Captain Zoradus Wass,
who was lounging against the rail just outside the pilot-house, Mr. Fogg
marched with business promptitude, and spoke with assurance.

"Captain, my name is Fletcher Fogg. Within forty-eight hours