“Aw! der perlice here are dead slow! Den dey don’t care much, anyway. Was dere menny sports come on der train wid you, Rafferty?”
“Several. One young fellow had got onto the fight somehow, and he was dead crazy to see it, but didn’t know how to get there. I think he had a roll to blow, too.”
“Well, why didn’t yer give him der tip if yer t’ought he was on der level?”
“I did. I sent him to Mike Kelley and told him Kelley would get him in.”
Frank had decided that the fellow with the bulldog face was a slugger and prize fighter, while his companion, the owner of the squirming fingers, was a gambler. The language of the men had revealed this plainly enough.
“Did yer give der young duck der word?”
“Yes. I told him to say ‘upper cut’ to Kelley and shove out his fiver.”
“That was all right. Who was yer friend?”
“I didn’t get his name. He was carrying a heavy grip, with a long slip of paper pasted on the side of it. On the paper were printed the words ‘True Blue,’ but I don’t know what that meant.”
It was impossible for Frank Merriwell to repress a start. He came near leaping to his feet with an exclamation of satisfaction, but quickly closed his mouth and dropped back into his seat.