"Dat's it. Mum's de woid. I won't open me trap."
"Nor write anything?"
The furtive look came back, this time more pronounced.
"Me to write! Wit wot? Me new typewriter?"
"That isn't an answer. Do you promise, if we send you with Buck, that you'll neither tell nor write nor make known in any way what you learn about what we are doing?"
"Say, look here, boss. Quit yer kiddin'. Me name is Lippe and mebbe I shoot it off a bit too frequent now and then, but you don't need to be afeered o' me peachin' to de udder'Bos.'"
"I'm not afraid of that," continued Ned. "We don't care what you tell all the tramps this side of Kansas City. But we don't want you to print anything more about us in the Comet."
Hardly a flush came on the tramp's face. There was a quick movement of the lips as if he were about to make protest and then he laughed outright.
"Bob Russell," said Ned, also laughing, "would you like the use of our bath tub for a few moments?"
"Would I!" laughed the young reporter rubbing his tinted and smoke begrimed hands together as if to wash them. "Well, I guess I would. My hands are up. What's next?"