“I wish we could get your chum out.”
“I wish so, too; but you don’t s’pose we can do it by standing here, do you?”
“No, but I don’t know nothin’ to do; do you, Bob?”
“If I told you what to do, you wouldn’t do it.”
“Well, I didn’t see no sense in my goin’ in there alone, nohow.”
“I did, if you didn’t. I wanted you to look round and see what you could find out, and post me, so when I went in I could do the grand act.”
“I wouldn’t a’ got out to post you, Bob. They’d a’ kept me—that’s what they’d done.”
The door now opened, and out came the same boy who but a few minutes before had entered the Gunwagner den. He looked cautiously about him, and then started down the street toward the East River. He was a small boy, of about twelve years of age, while our two detectives were several years his senior. From remarks dropped by Felix Mortimer and Peter Smartweed, Bob surmised that Gunwagner might keep a fence, and the suspicious manner of this small boy confirmed his belief.
“Here’s our chance,” whispered Bob, nervously. “You follow this boy up, and don’t let him get away from you. I’ll rush ahead and cut him off. Keep close to him, so we can corner him when I whistle three times.”
“All right,” said Tom, with his old show of enthusiasm, and each commenced the pursuit.