"It's lonesome as thunder down here, isn't it? Glad to see you, gentlemen. What's up—a bicycle race?"
"No, sir; we got a little business up here, that's all," responded Anderson Crow diplomatically. "What air you doin' here?"
"Skating. My name is Wicker Bonner, and I'm visiting my uncle, Congressman Bonner, across the river. You know him, I dare say. I've been hanging around here for a week's hunting, and haven't had an ounce of luck in all that time. It's rotten! Aha, I see that you are an officer, sir—a detective, too. By George, can it be possible that you are searching for some one? If you are, let me in on it. I'm dying for excitement."
The young man's face was eager and his voice rang true. Besides, he was a tall, athletic chap, with brawny arms and a broad back. Altogether, he would make a splendid recruit, thought Anderson Crow. He was dressed in rough corduroy knickerbockers, the thick coat buttoned up close to his muffled neck. A woollen cap came down over his ears and a pair of skates dangled from his arm.
"Yes, sir; I'm a detective, and we are up here doin' a little investigatin'. You are from Chicago, I see."
"What makes you think so?"
"Can't fool me. I c'n always tell. You said, 'I've bean hangin',' instead of 'I've ben hangin'.' See? They say bean in Chicago. Ha! ha! You didn't think I could deduce that, did you?"
"I'll confess that I didn't," said Mr. Bonner with a dry smile. "I'm from Boston, however."
"Sure," interposed Isaac Porter; "that's where the beans come from, Anderson."
"Well, that's neither here nor there," said Mr. Crow, hastily changing the subject. "We're wastin' time."