“What about this one?”
“It is what you may call the headquarters of the Woodford gang of post office robbers. And, yet, it seems hardly right to call it that, for it is sort of hiding place to which they flee when things begin to grow warm.”
“You have been there?”
“Several times. I will go again with you.”
“No need; I can’t go wrong with such directions. Why, Mike himself can understand it.”
He gravely held up the drawing before the Irish youth, who squinted one eye and carefully scrutinized it.
“I must say I don’t make sure whither it’s a picter of yersilf, Mr. Calvert, or a view of an automobile trying to climb a tree.”
“What did I tell you, Orestes? Isn’t he bright?”
“An unnicessary question,” said Mike loftily; “as Auntie McCaffry would answer if ye asked her which was the handsomest and cutest and smartest one among her three guests.”
“Noxon,” said Calvert, with a smile over the repartee of the Irish lad, “do either Kit Woodford or Graff Miller know your right name?”