“And while you’re all waiting,” he added in a lower tone, “I’ll hop down to Jerry’s for two quarts of coffee and a sack of sinkers,” and away he went.
“Coffee and doughnuts,” Jimmie thought with a start. “That was what I was after. Wonder what became of that black bag? Bet that fellow got it.”
His father was working late that night because of the heavy-weight boxing bout. Jimmie had begged permission to stay down-town and go home with him on the late theater train and permission had readily been granted. Later when Howard Drury, his father, was ready to start his story he had sent Jimmie out for refreshments. These were always carried in a small, black leather bag.
“Say!” Jimmie exploded suddenly, wheeling about to face Tom Howe, the young detective. “I’ll bet I know why that Silent Terror came to pick on me.”
“Why?” Tom Howe stared.
“I was carrying a small black bag.”
“Sure, that’s it,” Tom agreed, quick to seize upon the clue. “Thought you were a messenger carrying money from some small theater to the central vault.”
“That’s it,” Jimmie agreed.
This much decided upon they all lapsed into silence. They were a quiet group, these reporters and the detective, when there was nothing really serious to be talked about.
Jimmie now found time to think back over the days that had led up to this moment. Think, he did, and like all the thoughts of youth, his were long, long thoughts.