Kenyon glanced at Webster.
“This one seems to have been told less than the fellow from Butte,” remarked the latter. “I wonder why?”
“Perhaps the other one insisted upon knowing more before he made a move.”
The little pugilist looked interested.
“Say,” spoke he, “if youse can put me hep on the game, I’d be obliged. There is something coming to a couple of stick-up guys for trimming me that night, and I’d like to settle the bill when I’m fit.”
“I’m sorry to say that we can tell you little or nothing; we are vastly interested ourselves for certain reasons, but can learn nothing definite. However, this much I’m sure of. One of the men who had a hand in laying you out is a New York crook called the Stalker.”
“The Stalker, eh? I’ll remember that. In a little while my lid will be all right and I’ll hunt him up. And if I find him, he’ll get plenty. Make a note of it.”
Kenyon handed the youth a sum of money that caused a broad grin to spread itself across his face.
“Pal,” said he, “yous’er all fineo. It takes a sport to pass it along that way. And that’s no hop vision. Say,” warming up, “I’ll bet yous’er a friend of the young lady who was to see me at Bellevue yesterday.”
“I thought you were a stranger in New York.”