“So you’re goin’ to foller him? I wish I could go with you, Bob.”
“But, you see, you must sell papers. I’ll want you to help me later, when I get the case well worked up.”
“It’ll be too big for one detective then, I s’pose?”
“That’s the idea, Tom. Then I’ll call you in,” said Bob, with the swell of a professional.
“I wish ’twas all worked up, Bob, so you’d want to call me in now, as you call it. It’ll be exciting, won’t it?”
“Well, I should think it would, before we get through with it.”
“Say, Bob, will there be any fightin’?” asked Tom, eagerly. He was already excited over the prospects.
“Can’t say that now—hain’t got the case worked up enough to tell. ’Tain’t professional to say too much about a case. None of the detectives does it, and why should I? That’s what I want to know, Tom Flannery.”
“Well, you shouldn’t, Bob, if the rest doesn’t do it.”
“Of course not. It’s no use to be a detective, unless the job is done right and professional. I believe in throwin’ some style into anything like this. ’Tain’t often, you know, Tom, when a feller gets a real genuine case like this one. Why, plenty er boys might make believe they had cases, but they’d be baby cases—only baby cases, Tom Flannery, when you’d compare ’em with this one—a real professional case.”