“Who’s the man you’re thinking of?”
“It’s Joe Prime, that keeps the confidential house in a little street off South street. He’s got eyes as black as coal, and I once heard his place called the mill. You’re sold, Will. Pass over them tens.”
“He’s a fence, then, and keeps a stock of burglar’s goods in store?”
“That’s him,” said Joe. “I follered some light-fingered nobs there once, and nailed him. Pass over.”
“I’ve a notion you’ve nailed it, Joe,” said Will. “Meet me on the corner of the alley to-night before eight, and we’ll settle.”
“What the blue blazes is that for?” asked Joe, suspiciously. “Are you trying to sell on me? If you are, I’m blowed if I can’t polish you.”
“You never seen the day you could do that, Joe. And nobody knows it better than you. Can’t say now if there’s anything in the wind or no. Jist meet me there, that’s all.”
“I never tramp on a blind scout.”
“I want you. Ain’t that enough?” said Will, impatiently. “You’re as curious as an old woman. Say half-past seven sharp, at the corner. I’ll tell you then if you’ve won your bet or not. Can’t tell now.”
Will spent the afternoon quietly in the store, ate a hasty and frugal supper, and reached the rendezvous at the hour named.