"Remember, we're bound for Alaska," he said. "We can't afford to stop at every sight on the way."
A few blocks further on a directory was found in a drug store and the address of Bartwell & Stone jotted down. They lost no further time in hunting up the firm of bankers and brokers, who occupied the ground floor of a substantial business structure.
"I am Earl Portney," explained Earl, to the clerk who asked them what they wanted. "This is my brother Randolph. Our uncle, Foster Portney, said he would send on some money for us from San Francisco. Has it arrived yet?"
"I'll see. Was it a telegraph order?"
"I suppose so."
The clerk disappeared into an inner apartment, to be gone several minutes. When he came out he was accompanied by a tall, sharp-eyed man in rusty black.
"These are not the young men who called for the money," said the man in rusty black. "There must be some mistake here."
"Were the other men identified, Mr. Stone?" questioned the clerk, while both Randy and Earl pricked up their ears.
"Oh, yes; a clerk from Johnston's restaurant identified them as Earl and Randolph Portney. Besides, they held the original letter which had been sent by their uncle, Foster Portney, from San Francisco."