I fumbled through my pockets until I found it. Mother Borton clutched
it, held it up to the candle, and studied it for two or three minutes.
"Where did you get it?"
I described the circumstances in which it had come into my possession,
and repeated the essentials of Corson's story. Mother Borton's sharp,
evil face was impassive during my recital. When it was done she
muttered:
"Gimme a fool for luck." Then she appeared to consider for a minute or
more.
"Well?" said I inquiringly.
"Well, honey, you're having a run of the cards," she said at last.
"Between having the message trusted to a fool boy, and having a cop for
your friend, an' maybe gitting this note before you're expected to,
you're setting here genteel-like having agreeable conversation along
with me, instead of being in company you mightn't like so well--or
maybe floating out toward Fort Point."
"So you didn't write it?" I said coolly. "I had an idea of the kind.
That's why my friend Corson is smoking his pipe down stairs."
Mother Borton gave me a pleased look and nodded. I hoped I had made her
regret the cruel insinuation in her application of the proverb to me as
the favorite of fortune.
"I see," I said. "I was to be waylaid on the road here and killed."
"Carried off, more likely. I don't say as it wouldn't end in killin'
ye. But, you see, you'd be of mighty small use in tellin' tales if you
was dead; but you might be got to talk if they had ye in a quiet
place.
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