“Don’t see how you’re goin’ to get it, the way you are fixed now,” continued Bob.
“Well, if you will not let me go for it, I can tell you where to find it.”
“Can you? Well, where is it?”
“It is in my bedroom, in the further end of the house. You will find it in the thick wallet, under my pillow.”
“Well, we will take your word for it, seein’ we don’t need the money for anything, and wouldn’t take it nohow,” said the young detective, who divined the purpose of the old fence.
“But if you don’t get it, how can I make you boys a present? You will not allow me to go for it,” said the fence, fearing his scheme had failed him.
“We don’t want no present, so don’t worry yourself about that.”
“We prefer taking you with us, rather than the present,” said Herbert.
“Old man,” continued Bob, “your game didn’t work. All you wanted was to get me out of the way so you could er layed Vermont out. But it warn’t no go. You was too anxious to give away money. I could see all the time what you was aimin’ at.”
The old fence protested against this interpretation of his motives, but the boys were too keen for him. Young Bob Hunter had been knocking about the streets of New York too long to be very easily taken in by this old Gunwagner. His wits had been sharpened to a high degree in his long struggle for bread, and his knowledge of human nature was as superior to that of Herbert Randolph as the latter’s general education was superior to Bob’s.