“Did you see that fellow just passed by?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“I did once—thoroughly. Heard he was in town. The nerve, now!”
“Who is he?”
“He’s bad all through. Name is Dale Wacker. When Bart Stirling first took his father’s place as express agent here, that fellow’s uncle plotted to down him. Worse than that, he stole a lot of stuff from the express people. The police were after him. Dale, his nephew, was mixed up in it, and had to leave town. Heard he was in jail somewhere for some new exploits. Came back yesterday, I learned. Seemed to have plenty of money and tried to cut a figure showing it. Says he’s a travelling man now, and earning untold wealth. Guess he’s on the way to the depot now, to find new victims to swindle where he isn’t so well known as he is here. I say, who’s in there, anyhow?”
As Bob spoke, Markham came climbing up the scantling out of the cistern. He was wet to the knees and looked troubled of face.
Frank noticed that he glanced anxiously in the direction of the street.
“Better go and get on dry clothes,” suggested Frank.
“Oh, this job won’t take us long to finish, now,” answered Markham.
“Well, I’ve got some printing to deliver,” said Bob. “Come over to the house after supper, fellows.”