§ 11
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!
