"Know ye? No. Yer a'n't one of our fellers."
"Look again." Bog raised his ragged cap, and smoothed his hair back.
"Why, it's Mr. Bogert. Cuss me if it a'n't!"
"Just so, Bill. I'm trying to catch a chap that owes me something, you see. He's in the ferry house there, waiting for the boat. I'm going to follow him to Greenpoint, and find out where he lives. Then I'll have him arrested. Now, there are two people I would like to have as witnesses, when I track him to his house. The names are written here; and what I want of you is, to deliver these notes to them as soon as you can, and tell them to come right away. Will you do it, Bill?"
"Won't I, Mr. Bogert? Jest tell me the names, streets, and numbers, cos I can't read handwritin' very well, yer know."
Bog read the addresses, and, at the same time, produced a quarter from his fast-diminishing stock of silver. "Take that," said he.
"No yer don't!" said the eccentric youth. "You've done some good turns to me. Bill Fish don't forget his friends, I can tell yer. Here goes, now."
Bill Fish snatched the notes from Bog's hand, and ran down the street after a stage which had just left the ferry house on its down trip. Bog saw him seat himself on the step, with his head well hid from the driver, and sent a parting whistle after him, to which Bill Fish responded with an enormous grin and a jerk of thumb over shoulder at his natural enemy on the box.
"I'll give Bill Fish a good job, some day," mused Bog. "Now for the scoundrel."
The boat had come in. Bog watched from his hiding place until he saw young Van Quintem step on board, and disappear in the ladies' cabin. Then he hastened to the ferry house, paid his fare, and entered. To avoid being seen by young Van Quintem, he took a seat in that repository of stale tobacco-smoke called the "Gentlemen's Cabin."