“I don’t blame you for bein’ proud, Bob,” said Tom, admiringly. “I only wish I had such a case.”
“Why, you’ve got it now; you’re on it with me, hain’t you? Don’t you be silly now, Tom. You’ll get all you want before you get through with this case; an’, when it’s all published in the papers, your name will be printed with mine.”
“Gewhittaker!” exclaimed Tom; “I didn’t think of that before. Will our names really be printed, Bob?”
“Why, of course they will. Detectives’ names are always printed, hain’t they? You make me tired, Tom Flannery. I should think you’d know better. Don’t make yourself so redickerlous by askin’ any more questions like that. But just you tend to business, and you’ll get all the glory you want—professional glory, too.”
“It’ll beat jumpin’ off the Brooklyn Bridge, won’t it?” said Tom.
“Well, if you ain’t an idiot, Tom Flannery, I never saw one. To think of comparin’ a detective with some fool that wants cheap notoriety like that! You just wait till you see your name in big letters in the papers along with mine. It’ll be Bob Hunter and Tom Flannery.”
Tom’s eyes bulged out with pride at the prospect. He had never before realized so fully his own importance.