“He seems to be pretty well out of your way now.”
“But that won’t last forever. He must be got out of New York, that’s all. Old Gunwagner will not keep him round very long, you may be sure of that.”
“You don’t know how to shine a shoe,” growled Smartweed to our young detective. “See the blacking you have put on the upper! Wipe it off, I say; at once, too.”
Bob’s blood boiled with indignation, and he was about to reply sharply, when he remembered that he was now acting the detective, and so he said:
“All right, boss; I’ll fix it fer yer;” and he removed the superfluous blacking with great care. There was no longer any doubt in his mind about Herbert being a prisoner. He was satisfied that his friend was in the clutches of old Gunwagner, and he knew from the conversation that he was in danger of being lost forever to New York and to his friends.
The situation was an alarming one. Bob pictured vividly the worst possibilities of our hero’s fate.
Presently, after young Smartweed had lighted a cigarette and taken a few puffs, he said, absentmindedly:
“So you are going to send him away from New York?”
“Of course, you don’t s’pose we would be very safe with him here, do you?” replied Mortimer.
“Safe enough, so long as he is in old Gunwagner’s cell. But what is to be done with him? Send him back to Vermont?”