"Kind of a childish sum," said Scattergood to himself. "'Tain't wuth
bustin' up a life over--not three thousand.... Calc'late Ovid hain't
_bad_--not at a figger of three thousand. Jest a dum fool--him and his
tailor-made clothes...."
In the silence of the vault Scattergood removed his shoes and sat on a
pile of bagged silver. His pudgy toes worked busily while he reflected
upon the sum of three thousand dollars and what the theft of that amount
might indicate. "Looked big to Ovid," he said to himself. Then, "Jest a
dum young eediot...."
He replaced the cash and, carrying his shoes in his hand, left the vault
and closed it behind him. His four fellow committeemen were sweating
over the books, but all looked up anxiously as Scattergood appeared. He
stood looking at them an instant, as if in doubt.
"What d'you find?" asked Atwell.
"She checks," said Scattergood.
The four drew a breath of relief. Scattergood wished that he might have
joined them in the breath, but there was no relief for him. He had
joined his fortunes to those of Ovid Nixon--and to those of Ovid's
mother; had become _particeps criminis_, and the requirements of the
situation rested heavily upon him.
Pages:
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310