Another man came out, another and yet another. The boards were replaced. The three men marched down the street. There was in their walk more of a lockstep than the slow slouch of tired workmen.
Jimmie went down to drink a steaming cup of coffee, then to sleep for two hours in a big, soft chair.
After that he burst into Scottie’s studio to place a film on his table and exclaim:
“Develop those, Scottie. They’ll make us famous.”
“Like fun they will!” Scottie laughed.
Nevertheless he did develop them, and, mere shadow pictures taken at dawn though they were, Tom Howe recognized them at once as pictures of Piccalo, the Pipe, Stumps Sharpe, and Black Dolan.
“MY PALS!” he exclaimed. “I have a direct tip that the job is to be pulled tonight and I have a feeling that we shall all meet in the alley by that fur storage place by the moonlight.”
“And the Bubble Man,” suggested Jimmie.
“We haven’t got him yet,” Tom frowned. “I set a watch but someone must have tipped him off. I feel sure enough that he’s got a supply of his infernal bubbles with him. Question is, what kind of gas is in ’em, sleeping or killing?”
“Perhaps we’ll get him at the ball game tomorrow,” Jimmie suggested.