“The trouble is,” put in Soapy Shay sarcastically, “you don't know a dishonest one when you see him, Bill.”
“Veil, let's get down to business,” said Moses Block nervously. “Ve must go slow and careful-like. If we show our hands too soon, they will uprise and--veil, I don't know vat!”
“Mr. Mott, what would you do if you got wind of a plot like this aboard ship?” inquired Percival, his eyes narrowing.
“I would have the whole gang in chains before morning. Then I'd give 'em a taste of the 'cat' at daybreak, and before noon I'd have the ringleaders hanging from a yard-arm,” said Andrew Mott, succinctly.
“Now, I'll tell you what would happen up in Copperhead Camp,” said Percival, darkly. “They would get a beautiful cow-hiding and then sentenced to wear a ball and chain, day and night, for anywhere from six months to two years,--depending largely on the process of regeneration. My experience has been that six months is enough.”
“We wouldn't dare do that, A. A.,” said Fitts. “You must not forget public sentiment,--and public pity. I've got a better plan. How far out is that little island off New Gibraltar, Platt?”
“Well, if they're not satisfied with life and conditions here, let's make 'em a present of a nice little island of their own. That's what I've always advocated as the proper way to treat anarchists. Stick 'em away on an island completely surrounded by sharks and let 'em run it to suit themselves.”
“But there are no sharks in these waters,” said Flattner. “They'd swim over here some night and slit all our throats.”
“Not a chance. They hate water too much to have ever learned how to swim. Now, here's the scheme. Round up as many of them as we're dead sure about, row 'em out to the island, dump 'em with enough food and water to last a week, supply them with tents and beds and tools, and let 'em build their own penitentiary. They'll have to do it or freeze next winter. Once a week send food and drink out to them. The water is a hundred fathoms deep between Trigger Island and that little green wart out there on the face of the ocean. It will look like a million miles to them. How does it strike you, gentlemen?”
Off the precipitous western extremity of Trigger Island lies a tiny scrap of tree-covered land. It is perhaps one hundred yards wide and thrice as long. An exploring party had visited it shortly after the wreck of the Doraine, but since then no one had set foot upon its shores. Its steep slopes, densely wooded, viewed from afar, suggested a mountain top sticking up out of the sea. By boat, skirting the coast, it was a good ten miles distant from the town.