“The detective? Yes; that is I know him by reputation. I never chanced to meet him.”
“He’s the guy, Judge Hoyt. He can find a moiderer by clues what ain’t there! Gee, but he’s a wonder!”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve read about him a heap o’ times. I’ve read up most every case he’s ever had, if it was in the papers. Why,” and Fibsy pulled a newspaper from his pocket. “Here’s a account of a case he’s jest finished—”
“And here’s the waiter with our steak. Suppose we let Mr. Stone wait.”
“Will we!” and Fibsy’s eyes shone as he saw the platter that was offered for the Judge’s inspection. “Gee! I’ve dreamed of a steak like that, but I never spected to have one soived up to me!”
“And now,” the judge resumed, after the steak had been cut and “soived,” “let us discuss your next position of trust and responsibility. You want to be in New York? But suppose we arrange for your aunt to live in Philadelphia, and then you can keep your place with Mr. Stetson.”
“Mighty nice plan,” Fibsy’s fork paused in mid-air, while he thought, “but,—oh, hang it all, Judge,—I jest love New York! Why, its old torn-up dirty streets are more ’tractive to us, than Philly’s clean, every-day-sloshed-up w’ite marble steps.”
“Ah, a true Gothamite,” and the Judge smiled. “Well, we must try for a place in this metropolis, then.”
“Yes, sir, please. And, too, Judge Hoyt, I gotter be here to keep me eye on that ’ere trial of Mr. Landon.”