And then out came Jethro, as big as life and natural enough to scare the life out of me. He marched right past us so close we could have touched him, and went to the door.
Well, sir, when we heard the man’s voice that he let in you could have bought me for a peanut shuck. It was the Man With the Black Gloves. Mark pinched my arm.
Right then I says to myself that being a newspaper man was all right—if you kept on being one all in a healthy piece—but as for me, I’d rather be something else and safe in bed.
Jethro and the Man With the Black Gloves went right past us and into the library, where they lighted the lamp and left the doors open. The light shone right out into the hall, and they sat down facing the door, looking right out in our direction. We couldn’t have moved out of that cubby-hole an inch without being seen. It was a dandy place to be, I don’t think!
The worst of it was they talked low so we couldn’t hear a word they said, until at last the Man With the Black Gloves sort of raised his voice, angry-like, and says:
“We got to get that kid out of here. Right away.”
That was all we heard, but Mark laid his fingers on my hand and pressed. I knew what he meant all right. What he meant was it was lucky we heard that, and we’d have to get awful busy awful quick.
After a while we made out another thing he said, which was, “The kid’s father’s dead. Central America. Months ago. No danger from him.”
Well, we had later news about Big Rock than that. Then Jethro says: “This Pekoe don’t know anythin’. There’s nothin’ he can tell the boy.”
“But he can snoop around and get suspicious,” says the Man With the Black Gloves, “and he’s no man to fool with—not if he’s been a partner of Big Rock Armitage.”