[“What!” squealed Young. “You ain’t a—a——”]
[“What!” squealed Young. “You ain’t a—a——”]
“My friend,” was the smiling reply, “I’m only a poor writer of tales who has been doing his best to relieve the tedium of a dull journey. The next time you have dealings with a detective, and something tells me there’s going to be a next time, you ask to be shown his badge. Never take anything for granted, my friend. It’s a wicked world and there are, unfortunately, folks in it ever ready to impose on the credulity of the young and—ah—innocent. Good-night, Mr. Young. And thanks for the amusement you’ve so kindly afforded.”
They left him crumpled up in the corner, still holding his open suit-case, an expression of mingled wrath and incredulity on his face.
Joe’s new friend led the way back to his chair in the Pullman, where he deposited bag and coat and again changed from derby to cap. Then they returned to the library car and viewed each other smilingly from opposite chairs.
“I was right about the narrowness of the skull between the ears,” observed the man reflectively. “Mr. Young is weak, lamentably weak, and will not, I feel sure, ever make a success in his chosen profession.”
“His chosen profession?” repeated Joe questioningly.
“Yes, thieving. Perhaps it’s all for the best, however. Finding himself unable to prosper in that line, he may turn honest. Let us hope so. And now there’s one small formality we’ve neglected. Suppose we learn each other’s names?”
“Mine is Joseph Faulkner, sir.”