defunct People's Cooperative Bond and Loan Company.

"What's this thing for?" asked Wallingford, inspecting it curiously.

"The drawing," whispered Doc Turner.

"What drawing?"

"The loans."

"You don't mean to say that you're going to conduct this as a
lottery?" protested Wallingford, shocked and even distressed.

"Sh! Don't use that word," cautioned Turner. "Not even among
ourselves. You might use it in the wrong place some time."

"Why not use the word?" Wallingford indignantly wanted to know.
"That's what you're preparing to do! I told you in the first place
that this was not by any means to be considered as a lottery; that it
was not to have any of the features of a lottery. Moreover, I shall
not permit it to be conducted as a lottery!"

Doc Turner leaned against the side of the big wooden wheel and stared
at Wallingford in consternation.

"What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Have you gone crazy, or
what?"

"Sane enough that I don't intend to be connected with a lottery! I
have conscientious scruples about it."

"May I ask, then, how you propose to decide these so-called loans?"
inquired Turner, with palm-rubbing agitation.

"Examine the records of the men who have made application," explained
Wallingford; "find out their respective reputations for honesty,
reliability and prompt payment, and place the different loans,
according to that information, in as many different towns as
possible."

Doc Turner gazed at him in scorn for a full minute.

"You're a damned fool!" he declared. "Why, you yourself intended to
conduct this as a secret society, and I had intended to have
representatives from at least three of the lodges attend each
drawing."

To this Wallingford made no reply, and Turner, to ease his mind,
locked the door on the lottery-wheel and went in to open the mail. It
always soothed him to take money from envelopes. A great many of the
letters pertaining to the business of the company were addressed to
Wallingford in person, and Turner slit open all such letters as a
matter of course. Half-way down the pile he opened one, addressed to
Wallingford, which made him gasp and re-read. The letter read:

DEAR JIM:

They have found out your new name and where you are, and
unless you get out of town on the first train they'll
arrest you sure. I don't need to remind you that they don't
hold manslaughter as a light offense in Massachusetts.

Let me know your n