a shot at him, whether it's
with a tomato or something else!" snapped Maxon with sudden
viciousness. "I'd like to pitch him into one of his own vats!"

"You don't love him much, eh?"

Charlie Maxon thereupon expressed his exact opinion of his late
employer in studied terms to which Mr. Moody lent the attentive and
appreciative ear of a connoisseur in language. When the recitation was
ended, he nodded approval and returned to his doorstep, where he sat
down and contentedly finished his cigar.

Maxon dropped on his cot, eased the cork from the bottle of rye and
took one satisfying drink of the invigorating liquor. More, he dared
not allow himself for the moment.

At nine o'clock Moody rose from his doorstep and came inside, carefully
locking and double-locking the door and putting its key in his pocket.
He did the same by the rear exit, and was preparing to retire to the
privacy of his own small room when he was hailed a second time by his
charge.

"Now, what?" Moody went to the barred door of the cell with more
alacrity on this occasion, hopeful of further largesse. "Can't you let
a man have a minute's peace?"

"Going to bed so soon?"

"Nothin' else to do."

"Remember two years ago how we used to play checkers at the Workmen's
Club?"

"What of it?"

"You used to beat me then pretty regular, but I guess it'd be different
now. I'd beat you four out of five."

"That's nonsense. What are you gettin' at anyway?"

"What's the matter with letting me out of here for a while? A few
games of checkers wouldn't do any harm--help pass the time."

"Help pass--! Say, where do you think you are? Why don't you ask me
to take you to the movies? Mebbe you'd like me to send for Drusilla
so's we could have a dance? Want me to lose my job, huh?"

"Who's going to know anything about it except us? Slip out and get a
board--and a couple of glasses!"

"_Glasses_? What kind of glasses?"

"Whisky glasses."

Moody started. He looked keenly at his prisoner. Slowly, a warm light
stole into his eye, he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"Quit your kiddin'!"

"I'm not kidding--look here!"

Maxon knew his man. Satisfied that he had Moody quivering with
anticipation, he stepped to his cot, produced the flat bottle and shook
it invitingly. The rich gurgle was music to the jailer's ear. A more
hard-boiled, professional warder would have followed just one course
with decision and dispatch, to Moody'