“I know Terence,” he said, “that in the detective stories you are doubtless fond of, the eagle eyed sleuth sees a footprint, and immediately described the villain at full length. But I have never yet seen a footprint that amounted to anything as proof. Why, ninety-nine men out of a hundred would fit into the same footprint. Or, heelprint, I believe you said. Which, of course, would be even less distinctive.”
Fibsy looked at the speaker in genuine admiration. “That’s just true, sir!” he cried, eagerly. “The stories are full of footprints, but I’ve tracked out lots of ’em and I never found a good one yet.”
“Just what do you mean by ‘tracked them out’?”
“Why, I’ve watched by chance of a rainy day, when lots of men track mud into the outer office, and afterward, I fit my own shoe to ’em an’ by jiminy, sir, it fits inter every bloomin’ track!”
Hoyt looked interested. “You have gone into the subject carefully, almost scientifically.”
“Well, I’ve read such rediklus tales of such things, I wanted to see for myself. You know, I’m goin’ to be a detective.”
“If you have such ingenious views, you may succeed. But what about the button?”
“Well, you see,” and Fibsy’s face grew blank, “you can’t tell much by a suspender button, ’cause they’re all alike. If it had been a coat button, now, or——”
The judge looked at the boy thoughtfully. “Terence,” he said, “I promised not to laugh at you, and I won’t. But I think it only fair to tell you that I can’t take much interest in your ‘clues.’ But your conversation has made me realize that you’re a bright boy. Knowing that, and as you were the office boy of my very good friend, I’d like to do something for you. Have you obtained a place yet?”
“No, sir, I haven’t.”