“Let me tell you, deacon, you were lucky to have that much safe and snug in your wallet. Always carry your money in your pocket.”
“We must find the boys afore they can spend it.”
“As well to look for a needle in a haystack, deacon, as to look for a boy in New York. But come with me, and to-morrow I will see what can be done.”
“Do you think you can get my money and shirt, and——”
“Quite sure of it, deacon. I’ll put a couple of detectives on their tracks, who will run them to earth as a hound would a fox. I don’t like to mention such personal trifles, but it was providential for you that I came along as I did.”
“I know it, I know it,” replied the deacon, who was in better spirits now that he felt there was a prospect of getting back his money. “To think them boys should have played such a trick.”
“Learned their trade young, deacon. But come with me to-night. Nothing can be gained by following, or rather trying to follow, those slippery young thieves. The police will know where to look for them.”
Keeping up a continual flow of words, he who called himself Harry Sawyer led the way along street after street, each one as they advanced seeming to grow more narrow and crooked. Bewildered as he was, Deacon Cornhill finally became aware of this. There was an unfavorable aspect about everything he saw, and he began to feel there was something wrong.
“Hold on, mister, I have forgot your name, but are you sure you are on the right road? This looks pesky crooked, and——”
In the midst of his speech he saw another man come swiftly out of a dark alley on the left, and caught sight of an object coming swiftly toward him. Then the missile struck him on the side of the head, and he fell to the pavement with a low moan of pain.