"Why, if it ain't Frank Allen! What's the good word, my boy?" asked the stout official, who regarded Frank as the finest boy in all Columbia.
"We've been up-country at the new Baxter farm, and had the pleasure of helping to put a fire started by the very rascal you're looking for, Bill Brockholt. Not only that, but we helped chase after him until he dropped the clothes he was carrying off to make use of in changing from his striped convict suit. He was just what they described him in that circular, a foot shorter than this man, and with a smooth face."
Bill had stepped forward while Frank was talking, and the boy, who had purposely mentioned that name, saw the start he gave.
He nudged Lanky in the ribs again, as if to say: "It's all right; this is the Bill you're looking for; he gave himself away that time!"
"Too bad you didn't get him, Frank, you're so lucky in all such things. But you must tell me all the particulars. There's a reward out for Brockholt, and some of us want to claim it," observed the police officer.
"Hey, Chief!" sang out Whalen at this juncture, "come here and take a look in his old shack! Told you he must have some pal along with him. Perhaps there is a whole gang afloat here."
Frank, looking quickly at the other, saw Bill smile broadly. He knew from this that the tramp was not trembling in fear.
"I just got a poor feller in there, Chief, that turned up cold, and wanting lodgin's. Stir him up, mister, and pull him out here," observed Bill, mysteriously.
Whalen vanished within the shack. They could hear him speaking, and gruff tones in reply. Then out came the officer, dragging a figure after him.
"Why, he's tied up as neat as you please!" exclaimed Chief Hogg.