“I have told the steward that your name is Ned Wheeler, and that my name is John Thomas.”
“It seems to me that you might have found better ones if you had tried.”
“No matter; they will answer our purpose as well as any others. You see our names will have to go into the passenger list, and if our fathers should suspect that we have gone up the lakes, they would have no difficulty in tracing us as far as Chicago, if we gave our true names.”
“I understand,” said Bob again. “Have you picked out a berth yet?”
“No; but I have seen the steerage, and it is a horrible-looking place. Come on; I’ll show it to you.”
Bob was not very favorably impressed with the appearance of things in the steerage. He looked at the dingy deck, the empty bunks, the ragged, dirty group in the corner, and stepped back and shook his head.
“I can’t go this, Guy,” said he. “I have been used to better things. Get your bundles, and we’ll take cabin passage. We shall have money enough to pay for it.”
The steward being hunted up, showed the boys to a state-room in the cabin, in which they deposited their luggage, after which they hurried ashore to carry out their plans.
Now came the hardest part of the work, and Guy would have been glad to shirk it, could it have been accomplished without his assistance.
It was dangerous as well as difficult, and there was dishonor connected with it. More than that—and this was what troubled Guy the most—there was a possibility that the crime they intended to commit, even if they were successful in it, would be discovered before they could leave the city, and then what would become of them?