“Sounds kind of fishy,” says I. “Everybody swallers it down,” says Catty, “but if there’s any cheatin’ in this I’ll bet it’s got somethin’ to do with that secret.” That very afternoon we didn’t have anything else to do, so we fussed around close to Mr. Kinderhook, keeping watch of him and listening to what he had to say. After a while he got up and walked down the street, and we trailed after him until he got to the station. He went into the telegraph-office and wrote out a message. We waited till he was gone and then we went right in where Tom Purvis was clicking the keys. We could do that because I knew Tom mighty well and he didn’t mind. We stood right back of Tom’s chair, making believe we were interested in what he was doing and how he sent messages, but really we wanted to get a sight of what Mr. Kinderhook had written. Pretty soon Tom came to it and began clacking away. I could read it over his shoulders. It was addressed to a man by the name of Matthew Binger in New York, and it said: Come at once. Crop ripe. Now that was a funny message, it seemed to me, because there weren’t any crops ripe just then, and Mr. Kinderhook wasn’t interested in crops if they had been. Catty and I went off after that, but we couldn’t make any head nor tail of it. It just looked silly, but anyhow we made up our minds we would keep meeting trains till this man Binger came, and we would see what he was up to and what crop Mr. Kinderhook had in mind. Two days later a stranger got off of the train. He was short and fat, and he looked almost as rich as Kinderhook did. “Bet that’s Binger,” says Catty. “Bet it is, too,” says I. So we rode with Pazzy Bills back to the hotel and saw the man register. Sure enough, his name was Matthew Binger and he asked if a man named Kinderhook was stopping there. The clerk allowed there was, and Mr. Binger asked the clerk if he would take up his card. The clerk done so, and pretty soon down comes Mr. Kinderhook, peering around like he was looking for somebody. He didn’t recognize Mr. Binger any more than as if he had never heard of him till the clerk says, “That’s the gentleman that wanted to see you, Mr. Kinderhook,” and Kinderhook walked over, holding the card in his hand and reading it. “Mr. Binger?” says he, looking at the card again, as if he was making sure he had the name right. “Matthew Binger—yes. And is this Mr. Arthur Peabody Kinderhook?” “It is. What can I do for you?” “I have come down from New York to talk business with you. Where can we go and be quiet?” “Is your business secret, Mr. Binger? Because if it is, we can’t talk. I don’t do secret business. There’s nothing about my business that any of my good friends in this town can’t hear. Whatever you’ve got to say to me can be said right out on the porch—or it can’t be said at all.”