Again Peter did not know how long he lay shivering in the black
dungeon. He only knew that they brought him bread and water three
times, before Guffey came again and summoned him forth. Peter now
sat huddled into a chair, twisting his trembling hands together,
while the chief detective of the Traction Trust explained to him his
new program. Peter was permanently ruined as a witness in the case.
The labor conspirators had raised huge sums for their defense; they
had all the labor unions of the city, and in fact of the entire
country behind them, and they were hiring spies and informers, and
trying to find out all they could about the prosecution, the
evidence it had collected and the moves it was preparing. Guffey did
not say that he had been afraid to kick Peter out because of the
possibility that Peter might go over to the Goober side and tell all
he knew; but Peter guessed this while he sat listening to Guffey’s
explanation, and realized with a thrill of excitement that at last
he had really got a hold upon the ladder of prosperity. Not in vain
had his finger been almost broken and his wrist almost dislocated!
“Now,” said Guffey, “here’s my idea: As a witness you’re on the bum,
but as a spy, you’re it. They know that you blabbed, and that I know
it; they know I’ve had you in the hole. So now what I want to do is
to make a martyr of you. D’you see?”
Peter nodded; yes, he saw. It was his specialty, seeing things like
that.
“You’re an honest witness, you understand? I tried to get you to
lie, and you wouldn’t, so now you go over to the other side, and
they take you in, and you find out all you can, and from time to
time you meet somebody as I’ll arrange it, and send me word what
you’ve learned. You get me?”
“I get you,” said Peter, eagerly. No words could portray his relief.
He had a real job now! He was going to be a sleuth, like Guffey
himself.
“Now,” said Guffey, “the first thing I want to know is, who’s
blabbing in this jail; we can’t do anything but they get tipped off.
I’ve got witnesses that I want kept hidden, and I don’t dare put
them here for fear of the Goober crowd. I want to know who are the
traitors. I want to know a lot of things that I’ll tell you from
time to time. I want you to get next to these Reds, and learn about
their ideas, so you can talk their lingo.
“Sure,” said Peter. He could not help smiling a little. He was
supposed to be a “Red” already, to have been one of their leading
conspirators. But Guffey had abandoned that pretence--or perhaps had
forgotten about it!
It was really an easy job that Peter had set before him. He did not
have to pretend to be anything different from what he was. He would
call himself a victim of circumstances, and would be honestly
indignant against those who had sought to use him in a frame-up
against Jim Goober. The rest would follow naturally. He would get
the confidence of the labor people, and Guffey would tell him what
to do next.
“We’ll put you in one of the cells of this jail,” said the chief
detective, “and we’ll pretend to give you a `third degree.’ You’ll
holler and make a fuss, and say you won’t tell, and finally we’ll
give up and kick you out. And then all you have to do is just hang
around. They’ll come after you, or I miss my guess.”
So the little comedy was arranged and played thru. Guffey took Peter
by the collar and led him out into the main part of the jail, and
locked him in one of a row of open cells. He grabbed Peter by the
wrist and pretended to twist it, and Peter pretended to protest. He
did not have to draw on his imagination; he knew how it felt, and
how he was supposed to act, and he acted. He sobbed and screamed,
and again and again he vowed that he had told the truth, that he
knew nothing else than what he had told, and that nothing could make
him tell any more. Guffey left him there until late the next
afternoon, and then came again, and took him by the collar, and led
him out to the steps of the jail, and gave him a parting kick.
Peter was free! What a wonderful sensation--freedom! God! Had there
ever been anything like it? He wanted to shout and howl with joy.
But instead he staggered along the street, and sank down upon a
stone coping, sobbing, with his head clasped in his hands, waiting
for something to happen. And sure enough, it happened. Perhaps an
hour passed, when he was touched lightly on the shoulder. “Comrade,”
said a soft voice, and Peter, looking between his fingers, saw the
skirts of a girl. A folded slip of paper was pressed into his hand
and the soft voice said: “Come to this address.” The girl walked on,
and Peter’s heart leaped with excitement. Peter was a sleuth at
last!