“My boy, I’m only too glad to keep away from the subject. I’m worried to death with it all. And if I can’t do any good by my efforts, I’ll willingly ‘lay low’ as you ask.”
“All right, ma’am. Now, I’m off, and I’ll be back here when I come again. So long.”
Fibsy went down in the service elevator and forthwith proceeded to interview the rubbish man of the house and some other functionaries.
By dint of much prodding of memory, assisted by judicious silver offerings, he finally learned that there was an apartment occupied by a couple with four children, who, it appeared, consumed large quantities of jam of all flavors. At least, their rubbish was bristling with empty jam pots, and the deduction was logical.
Seemingly unimpressed, Fibsy declared it was pickle-fiends he was searching for, and departed, outwardly crestfallen, but inwardly elated.
Going out of doors, he walked to the corner of Park Avenue, and turned into the side street.
Crossing that street to get a better view, he looked up the side of the big apartment house, and his gaze paused at the window in the tenth story which was in Miss Ames’ sleeping-room. Two floors below this was the apartment of the family who were reputed jam eaters.
Fibsy looked intently at all the windows. The one next Miss Ames’ was, he knew, in the Embury’s pantry. Hence, the one two stories below was in the Patterson’s pantry the Patterson being the aforesaid family.
And to the boy’s astonished and delighted eyes, there on the pantry window-sill sat what was unmistakably a jam jar!
So far, so good. But what did it mean? Fibsy had learned that Mr. Patterson was a member of the Metropolitan Athletic Club and was greatly interested in its presidential election—which election, owing to the death of one of the candidates had been indefinitely postponed.