“There is something in it,” Case asserted. “Men don’t draw maps entirely on imagination.”
“Then why don’t the men who drew the map go and tell Fontenelle all about it?”
“He tried to tell him all about it when he delivered the map to us, but as you know, the map reached the wrong hands.”
The boys walked the streets, comparing them unfavorably with those of Chicago, until nearly ten o’clock and then turned to go to the boat. When they came to the river front again, Alex stopped suddenly and caught Case by the arm.
“Look there,” he whispered, “What do you know about that?”
“About what?” asked Case, puzzled.
“Don’t you see him down there at the head of the pier?” asked Alex, nodding his head in that direction.
“I guess you’re the boy that’s got loose packing in his head to-night,” laughed Case. “What do you see?”
“What do I see?” repeated Alex. “That’s Max, the wharf rat, the cable cutter, the motor destroyer. Shall we go and get him?”
“Go and get him?” repeated Case. “He’d have a flock of wharf rats around us in about two minutes.”