"I can show you my card, letters, and other papers to prove my claim that I am Frank Merriwell, a traveler."
"Black Harry would be likely to have such letters and papers ready for just such an emergency. That trick will not count."
"Oh, well, don't fool around with that loaded gun held up against my head! Put on the irons, and give me a chance to rest my arms. Hurry up!"
"Shust led me dake dat revolfer, mine friendt," said the voice of the Jew. "Uf dot poy tries any funny pusiness, he vill be deat, vid der accent on der deat."
"Can I trust you?" cautiously asked Burchel Jones.
"Vell, I dunno. You can uf you vant to. I alvays make a bracdice uf doin' a cash pusiness."
After some hesitation, the tenderfoot detective decided that he could not do better than trust Solomon, and the revolver was surrendered to the Jew.
"Don'd you vink!" commanded Solomon, as he screwed the muzzle of the weapon up against the lad's head. "Uf you do, you vas a deat poy!"
The detective searched the youth, removing a handsome revolver from one of his pockets. That was the only weapon found anywhere on his person.
Burchel Jones was disappointed, for he had expected to find "guns" and knives concealed all over the lad.