The Rat was uneasily questioning my presence with his eye. Big Kennedy paused to reassure him.
“He's th' straight goods,” said Big Kennedy, speaking in a tone wherein were mingled resentment and reproach. “You don't s'ppose I'd steer you ag'inst a brace?”
The Rat said never a word, but his glance left me and he gave entire heed to Big Kennedy.
“This is the proposition,” resumed Big Kennedy. “You know Sheeny Joe. Shadow him; swing and rattle with him no matter where he goes. The moment you see a chance, get a pocketbook an' put it away in his clothes. When th' roar goes up, tell th' loser where to look. Are you on? Sheeny Joe must get th' collar, an' I want him caught with th' goods, d'ye see.”
“I don't have to go to court ag'inst him?” said the Rat interrogatively.
“No,” retorted Big Kennedy, a bit explosively. “You'd look about as well in th' witness box as I would in a pulpit. No, you shift th' leather. Then give th' party who's been touched th' office to go after Sheeny Joe. After that you can screw out; that's as far as you go.”
It was the next evening at the ferry. Suddenly a cry went up.
“Thief! Thief! My pocketbook is gone!”
The shouts found source in a broad man. He was top-heavy with too much beer, but clear enough to realize that his money had disappeared. The Rat, sly, small, clean, inconspicuous, was at his shoulder.
“There's your man!” whispered the Rat, pointing to Sheeny Joe, whose footsteps he had been dogging the livelong day; “there's your man!”