“Back, all of you,” the policeman interrupted her. “Give him air.”
“Fog, you mean,” Jimmie laughed. “I—I’m all right, officer. I—” He tried to rise but sank back dizzily.
“Take it easy,” the officer advised.
“Officer,” said Jimmie, “do you know Tom Howe?”
“Tommy Howe, that keen young detective? Who of the force don’t know him?” The officer laughed hoarsely.
“Get him on the phone at the State Street Station right away if you can.” Jimmie’s tone was eager, tense with excitement. “It—it’s terribly important. Tell him to meet me at the Daily Press offices. By the elevator, sixth floor.”
“And who shall I say you might be?” inquired the officer.
“Jimmie Drury. You must know my father,” the boy replied eagerly. “He’s Howard Drury,——”
“Chief sports editor of the Press. Sure, I know him. And you’re his son, right enough. The resemblance is plain. Right, my lad—But, say!” the policeman’s tone changed. “Don’t I get in on this? It was me that found you. Don’t forget that.”
“Sure! Oh, sure you do!” Jimmy exclaimed. “And now,” he strove again to rise, “with you—your help I can walk.”