CHAPTER VII
JOSHUA WALKS WITH HIS FATHER
JOSHUA COLE’S home was alight when he and the big detective entered the block. The plainclothes man had talked with the boy all the way from the gypo camp, and Joshua had found him a not unkindly person. He himself had a boy and a girl, he said, but they gave him little trouble. He had listened carefully while Joshua told him that he had not appropriated the razor with intent to use it as a weapon of offense or defense during his travels Westward, but the detective could not believe the story of the slug.
“Where d’ye get such confounded weird ideas, kid?” he wanted to know, and repetition of the whys and wherefores only brought forth laughter.
“Well, I don’t blame you for runnin’ off that way,” said the big fellow finally. “You’re a smart kid, if you are a little queer, and your dad’s a no-good son-of-a-gun, from what I’ve heard. But that’s between you an’ me—don’t tell ’im I said it. It’d maybe get me into trouble. But no matter how I feel about it, I gotta hang onto you—that’s what I’m paid for. Say, where’d you learn all that star racket? Gee! I don’t know when I’ve had as much fun as listenin’ to you spoutin’ about the good ship What-d’ye-call-it and all that!”
In silence the two climbed the steps of the Cole home, and the detective pressed the bell button. Presently Zida answered his ring, threw aloft her black hands, and rolled her eyes.
“Lawd bless us, heah he is! Wheah yo’-all been all dis time, honey? Yo’ mothah done go purt’ neah wil’! Come in heah dis minnit! Yo’ pappy drownd yo’, Ah reckon.”
“I wanta see Mr. Cole,” said the detective.
But before Zida could call him, John Cole, his dark face as gloomy as a goblin’s, came into the hall.
“Here he is, Mr. Cole,” said the officer.
“Yes, so I see,” returned Cole with seeming cold indifference. “Joshua, sit down there at the foot of the stairs while I talk to this man. Zida, go back to the kitchen.”