It was fortunate that this was the day of Peter’s
meeting with McGivney. He could really not have
kept this wonderful secret to himself over night.
He made excuses to the girls, and dodged thru the
chicken-yard as before, and made his way to the American
House. As he walked, Peter’s mind was working
busily. He had really got his grip on the ladder
of prosperity now; he must not fail to tighten it.
McGivney saw right away from Peter’s face that
something had happened. “Well?” he
inquired.
“I’ve got it!” exclaimed Peter.
“Got what?”
“The name of the spy in the jail.”
“Christ! You don’t mean it!”
cried the other.
“No doubt about it,” answered Peter.
“Who is he?”
Peter clenched his hands and summoned his resolution.
“First,” he said, “you and me got
to have an understanding. Mr. Guffey said I was
to be paid, but he didn’t say how much, or when.”
“Oh, hell!” said McGivney. “If
you’ve got the name of that spy, you don’t
need to worry about your reward.”
“Well, that’s all right,” said Peter,
“but I’d like to know what I’m to
get and how I’m to get it.”
“How much do you want?” demanded the man
with the face of a rat. Rat-like, he was retreating
into a corner, his sharp black eyes watching his enemy.
“How much?” he repeated.
Peter had tried his best to rise to this occasion.
Was he not working for the greatest and richest concern
in American City, the Traction Trust? Tens and
hundreds of millions of dollars they were worth—he
had no idea how much, but he knew they could afford
to pay for his secret. “I think it ought
to be worth two hundred dollars,” he said.
“Sure,” said McGivney, “that’s
all right. We’ll pay you that.”
And straightway Peter’s heart sank. What
a fool he had been! Why hadn’t he had more
courage, and asked for five hundred dollars? He
might even have asked a thousand, and made himself
independent for life!
“Well,” said McGivney, “who’s
the spy?”
Peter made an agonizing, effort, and summoned yet
more nerve. “First, I got to know, when
do I get that money?”
“Oh, good God!” said McGivney. “You
give us the information, and you’ll get your
money all right. What kind of cheap skates do
you take us for?”
“Well, that’s all right,” said Peter.
“But you know, Mr. Guffey didn’t give
me any reason to think he loved me. I still can
hardly use this wrist like I used to.”
“Well, he was trying to get some information
out of you,” said McGivney. “He thought
you were one of them dynamiters—how could
you blame him? You give me the name of that spy,
and I’ll see you get your money.”
But still Peter wouldn’t yield. He was
afraid of the rat-faced McGivney, and his heart was
thumping fast, but he stood his ground. “I
think I ought to see that money,” he said, doggedly.
