“They’re going to have a detective in here,” I told them.
“Who said so?”
But that was Celene Kingsley’s secret.
I had hoped that the threat might scare them. It had just the opposite effect; the boys of Levant had never seen a detective, but they had read every five-cent thriller on the subject. To be the object of a real detective’s attention seemed like glorious adventure—and they were sure that they were, when on their own prowling-grounds, match for any sleuth who ever dodged behind trees.
But I had stood up before her and had beaten fist upon my breast and had assured her that she could trust all to me. What sort of a knight was I to wear lady’s favor and then fail to do and dare in her behalf?
“I had hoped that you knew me better and that I stood higher with you fellows,” I said. “I’ll admit that you did a big job for me, and I am grateful. But you all had your fun out of it, for you have said so, over and over. You’ll have to admit something, yourselves; you’ll have to own up that we are ashamed of what we did to poor old Bangs. If you keep on you’ll do other things to be ashamed of. I’m advising you to stop.”
“We don’t want your advice,” said Ben.
“Then you’ll get something from me which you’ll like a blamed sight less than advice.”
Plainly they were hungry for information.
“What’ll that be?” asked one of the Sortwell boys.