“Who?” Seth demanded, grown restive under Pip’s accusing gaze.
“You, of course!”
“But I haven’t been up to any game.”
“You can’t stuff me with that kind of talk, ’cause I’ve got it down here in black an’ white.”
“Got what down?” Tim asked impatiently. “If there’s anything wrong, why don’t you come out with it like a man, an’ not stand there like a dummy?”
“Seth Barrows will find there’s somethin’ wrong when the whole perlice force of this city gets after him,” Pip replied, in what was very like a threatening tone. “Listen to this, Tim Chandler, an’ try to figger out the kind of a game Limpy’s been playin’!”
Then, with a tragical air, Master Smith read slowly from the newspaper he had been brandishing, the following advertisement:
“INFORMATION WANTED of a boy calling himself Seth Barrows. Said boy is about eleven years old; his left leg an inch shorter than the right, and is known to have been living in Jersey City three years ago. He then sold newspapers for a livelihood, and resided with one Richard Genet. A liberal reward will be paid for any information concerning him. Address Symonds & Symonds, Attorneys-at-law.”
As he ceased reading, Master Smith looked at his companions with a certain gleam of triumph in his eyes; but this expression quickly changed to one of severe reproof as he met Seth’s bewildered gaze.
“Sellin’ papers is good enough for me, though it ain’t a business that brings in any too much money,” he said sharply. “But I don’t keep a fancy dog, so the cost of livin’ ain’t so high.”