“Why, of course!” with laughing impatience. “Is that all?”
“Yes. And if they blame you for blowing the whistle—or anything, be sure and refer to Mr. Fitzpatrick. I ought to go with you, but I—”
“Aw, it ain’t necessary! I’m all right. Don’t you worry about me!”
Underneath his assumed bravery the boy had no relish for his errand, and he was somewhat dismayed to find that his friend was not visible at the police station. Still he went where he was bidden, with no show of fear, but holding his head high, as became the blower of Thomas Fitzpatrick’s whistle. For even the events of the last hour had by no means extinguished the glory of his afternoon exploit.
The chief was a burly man, with small, shrewd gray eyes set in a hard-lined face.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Blue Stickney, sir.”
“You are the boy, I believe, that summoned aid to Officer Fitzpatrick this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Who is your father?”