He was a ruddy-faced man. His mustache stood out like the hairs of a brush, and he had a little red scar over his right eye. When he smiled Allan liked him at once. Allan remembered that he often had seen him down by the railroad station.
They told the detective all they knew and he listened attentively. Then he looked about the rooms, and seemed much interested in everything he saw in the dark-room. He held up to the light the negative of Artie on the bicycle, and laughed over it.
“I have a kid about that size,” he said. “I wish you’d photograph him sometime.”
“I will,” said Allan.
“My boy Sporty,” said the detective, “is great. Why, sir,” said Dobbs to the Doctor, “that kid got a hold of my nippers the other day and got them on the necks of our cat and the cat next door. You never saw such a thing in your life. Scott! wasn’t there a row!”
At the thought of the handcuffed cats—that is to say, the neckcuffed cats—the Doctor and Allan joined in the detective’s jolly laugh.
Presently the Doctor, wishing to get back to the question of the plates, ventured to ask Dobbs what he thought about the situation.
“Oh,” said Dobbs, stooping to pick up a burnt match from the floor, “I guess Cheney did it; though his father didn’t have anything more to do with that fire than I had. Say,” continued Dobbs, turning to Allan, “how do you light your lamps here?” The room was lighted now by a small, ordinary lamp which Allan had borrowed from the kitchen.
“Why, with a match,” replied Allan.
“Will you let me see one of your matches?” asked Dobbs.