“If I were guessing,” replied Billy, “it would be that Ricker has long since crossed the river. Yet I wouldn’t mind finding out for certain.”
“There it is,” commented Henri; “I knew you wouldn’t be satisfied to let well enough alone. Come on, then; let’s look in the alligator’s throat to see if he has teeth.”
“Easy now, pard,” chided Billy; “there is nothing rash in my mind at this moment. If a little closer view doesn’t serve the purpose we will just be ladies and ask a policeman.”
Crossing the street, the lads tried the shop door. It stood as tight as wax.
A passerby tried to tell the boys something, but gave it up in despair when they looked as blank as a person stone deaf.
“Why didn’t you add the Slavonic to your language list, young man?”
Billy shook his finger at Henri in mock severity.
“You’ve no room to call me down in that regard,” retorted the French boy.
“True enough, pal,” apologized Billy; “it’s only a case of two babes in the woods in Russia instead of one.”
Between the silversmith’s shop and the next adjoining building, a warehouse, apparently deserted, was a narrow, covered walk, running back and the full apparent length of both structures.