hands and twisting his fingers until they cracked. "A pretty sight, eh,
Captain Plum? Now, to our account! A hundred carbines, eh? And a
thousand of powder and a ton of balls. Or is it in lead? It doesn't make
any difference--not a bit. It's three thousand, that's the account, eh?"
He fell to counting rapidly.

For a full minute Captain Plum remained in stupefied bewilderment,
silenced by the sudden and unexpected turn his adventure had taken.
Fascinated, he watched the skeleton fingers as they clinked the gold
pieces. What was the mysterious plot into which he had allowed himself
to be drawn? Why were a hundred guns and a ton and a half of powder and
balls wanted by the Mormons of Beaver Island? Instinctively he reached
out and closed his hand over the counting fingers of the old man. Their
eyes met. And there was a shrewd, half-understanding gleam in the black
orbs that fixed Captain Plum in an unflinching challenge. For a little
space there was silence. It was Captain Plum who broke it.

"Dad, I'm going to tell you for the third and last time that you've made
a mistake. I've got eight of the best rifles in America aboard my sloop
out there. But there's a man for every gun. And I've got something
hidden away underdeck that would blow up St. James in half an hour. And
there is powder and ball for the whole outfit. But that's all. I'll sell
you what I've got--for a good price. Beyond that you've got the wrong
man!"

He settled back and blew a volume of smoke from his pipe. For another
half minute the old man continued to look at him, his eyes twinkling,
and then he fell to counting again.

Captain Plum was not given over to the habit of cursing. But now he