“And what is the Central?”
“It is the headquarters—it is the padrone who hires us.”
“What is his name?”
“It is Vladimir—he has many, many men who work for him. It is percentages.”
“I understand,” murmured Ben, drawing back. “This doesn’t connect up Bob Dallow, though. Maybe some one else struck the same whistle idea I did.”
As Ben reached home he craned his neck, and then hurried his steps with a low cry of surprise and delight. There was a light in the dining-room, and seated at the table enjoying a hastily prepared meal, and waited on by Mrs. Hardy, was the very boy so strongly in his thoughts at the present moment—Bob Dallow.
“Well, well, well!” cried Ben, rushing unceremoniously into the room and greeting the smiling Bob, with handshakes and slaps on the shoulder, “here’s a grand sight for sore eyes.”
“Glad to see me, are you?” chuckled Bob, with his usual tantalizing imperturbability.
“That’s what.”
“You’ll be gladder soon. Let a famished pilgrim enjoy the rarest cookery in the country first, will you?”