"More than ever. I didn't tell you this morning who it was warned me that Lef Seller and his crowd meant to play so as to disable some of the Columbia Seven in the hockey game," Lanky remarked, seriously.
"That's a fact, you didn't. I meant to ask you later on, but it slipped my mind, so many things happened. Then that crack on the head upset me more or less. From the way you talk I imagine you're going to unbosom yourself of that secret now. Look here, was it that Bill?" demanded Frank, suddenly jumping at conclusions.
"Just who it was," returned the other, coolly.
"Then you saw him this morning?" went on Frank.
"No I didn't. He called me up to tell me."
"What, on the 'phone? Has he got a private wire up to Rattail Island?" asked the third member of the group.
"Bosh! he was here in town. Just stepped into the drug store, told Socrates Jones he wanted to 'phone, walked into the booth, planked down his little nickel, and used the whole outfit like he was to the manner born. Think of a hobo doing that, would you?" cried Lanky, triumphantly.
"Huh! that's nothing. A lot of these tramps have been workers once. Perhaps Bill may have been a telephone wireman, or something like that, in his palmy days, when he got his food by the sweat of his brow, instead of begging it at back doors," remarked Frank, immediately.
"Say, now, that reminds me that Socrates said he acted like he knew all about a telephone—in fact, from his manner, Socrates had an idea he belonged to that crew you remember we saw around here last week fixing the wires along the road to Bellport. Perhaps that was where I met him. It might be, you know; but it seems to be impressed on my mind that I knew the man, once on a time," continued the persistent Lanky.
"Then he told you over the wire—said that he knew Lef and his cronies were planning to do us a rough deal—was that it, Lanky?" Frank asked.