“Oh, brace up, brace up!” grunted the other. “Haven’t you got any sand at all?” “How much sand do you expect a man to have when he’s caught red-handed like this?” “You ought to back your legitimate amount of nerve, no matter what happens. You know, I suppose, that I could send you up for quite a spell for what you have tried to do here this afternoon?” “In the name of----” “Will you hush that yaup?” said the man with the gun, exasperated. “But if you knew----” “I know you’re a sneak thief, and that I’ve got you dead to rights. Understand? Now, if you want to do the right thing, there’s a chance for you to square yourself with me.” “What is it?” cried Nick, eagerly. “First, hand over that leather.” The detective forked it over. “Take anything else?” “Didn’t have time.” “Well, young man, my name is Leonard Martin. I’m from Chicago, and I’m touring New England with three friends of mine, traveling in one of these auto cars. The machine belongs to me, but I haven’t the first notion how to run the thing. One of my friends knows the ropes, but he was taken sick a day or two ago, and will be hung up here for quite a spell. Now, if you want to run the Red Spider for me----” “Oh, thank you, thank you!” mumbled Nick, with another contortion. “You whining fool!” growled Mr. Martin, testily, “will you shut up?” “Yes, sir; yes, sir!” “Then, if you want to save your scalp, you can drive the Red Spider for me.” “All right, sir.” “That is,” qualified Martin, “if you can. I’m going to try you right now.” Once more he reached out his left hand, and this time he pressed the bell. “Order the Red Spider around to the office entrance,” he called down the tube. Turning away from the wall, he again addressed himself to the detective. “I’m taking you into my employ, Jones,” he went on, “but at the first sign of disloyalty I shall turn you over to the police.” “I understand, sir.” “Try to run away from me, and I’ll have you hounded down if it costs me every dollar I’ve got in the world.” Nick shivered. “And another thing,” went on Martin, “you’re to let whisky alone. There’s a time for lushing, as for everything else, and when I’m ready to have you booze, I’ll let you know.” “Yes, sir.” “Come on, then. And don’t forget that I’ve got this right here, ready for use.” Martin thrust the six-shooter into his hip pocket with a flourish, and Nick had another shiver. They passed out into the hall and downstairs to the office. At the counter Martin halted for a word with the clerk. “How’s that man who got shot?” “Poorly, sir, poorly,” replied the clerk. “Will he be in bed long?” “He may never leave his bed, Mr. Martin.” “Tough, mighty tough,” mused the kind-hearted Mr. Martin, and passed out to his waiting auto. CHAPTER XXII. FOLLOWING A THEORY. Nick looked the machine over with a critical eye.