“Yes, yer honor,” was the answer.
“Then how is it that you are here?”
“Dunno, yer honor,” grinned the thief.
Nor did any one else seem to know.
This time the judge gave him two years, but six months later I saw him walking calmly down the Bowery one night.
That’s the way it goes in New York and always has.
If you are ever going to make a successful detective you have got to mind your own business strictly and not attempt to correct the morals of those over you. Nothing but trouble for yourself can ever result.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] It is to illustrate Sam Kean’s shrewdness at this particular point that I cite the case, to show how easily we may be thrown off the scent when the criminal suspects.—O. K. B.