Foraker would be at the mercy of Luke Taylor! This was Jim Harris' plotting, but he knew that Rowe's hand and mind had not been idle. John sat up.
"Suppose, " he said, "that the case should be postponed. Suppose they should hold you here a long time? Wouldn't you expect more than your fifty?"
"I'll tell a man I would. But they won't. The probate judge's fixed an' old Bryant can't turn a wheel to save himself. My part's done in ten minutes tomorra. Tha's all. Night after next I'll be steppin' out among 'em!"
In the poolroom across the street appeared the figure of Jim Harris, walking behind the tables, looking among the loafers in the far end of the room.
"There's Harris," said Taylor.
"Where?" Lucius started sharply. "Say, I better shake a leg! If he thought I'd been drinkin'—"
He rose. Harris was talking to the proprietor behind his counter. Taylor got to his feet.
"You'd better clear out, " he said. "He'll see you sure. Here, come along!"
Half shoving the confused boy he left the porch, whisked around the corner and was out of sight when Harris, scratching his head, appeared outside the pool-room and scanned the deserted street.
"Close shave!" whispered Taylor, slapping Lucius on the back. "But we're safe now."
A plan was forming in his mind, forming, oh, so slowly! He flattered the boy, directed a stream of inane banter into his ears as he led him down the dark street, keeping his tongue wagging while his mind drove along in search of a workable scheme.
"You got any hooch left?" he asked finally.
