Into this latter area came Anthony Fry and Johnson Boller and the boy, and as the peculiarly intelligent eyes of the latter darted about it seemed to Mr. Boller that their twinkle turned to a positive glitter.
It was absurd enough, it hailed doubtless from the nervous loneliness within himself, yet Johnson Boller felt that the youngster was a downright evil force, swaggering along there, tremendously conscious of his own importance! He should have been sedate and subdued, to put it mildly, yet he grinned at the impeccable night clerk from under his cap and sent his impudent eyes roving on, to alight finally on the big chair near the north elevator.
"Who's the party with the big specs and why the prolonged stare?" the youngster asked irreverently.
"Eh? Oh, that's Mr. Hitchin, a neighbor of mine," Anthony smiled.
"He's an amateur detective, kid," Johnson Boller added significantly. "He knows every young crook in town. He's coming here to give you the once over."
"I should worry," murmured the self-possessed young man.
"Johnson, don't be idiotic," Anthony said, as he laid a hand on the boy's arm. "I'll have to introduce you. What's your name, my lad?"
"Eh?" asked the unusual boy, staring hard at Anthony.
"Your name! What is it?"
"Well—er—Prentiss," the youth admitted.