“Well, where I live we don’t often resort to aliases. They just call me Bill Crocker.”
“Oh!” again said John O’Gorman’s daughter, both surprised and interested in the turn events had taken. “I’ll go bond for him, Chief,” she continued. “It’ll do us both good to know Bill Crocker.”
The man with the pock-marks, who leaned back against the wall in careless attitude, his clothing wrinkled and unpressed, his whole appearance unkempt and unattractive, returned their looks with a mild smile.
“Reputation is a vague thing,” said he, “and often undeserved or exaggerated. To-day Bill Crocker of Boston might be called the John O’Gorman of his city, but what will he be to-morrow? A few failures and he is totally forgotten.”
Josie gave one of her sympathetic nods.
“That’s true,” she affirmed. “If you’re pretty big you’re given a headline; perhaps your picture is printed, but in a few days no one remembers who you were. That’s a good idea, for otherwise the Book of Fate would be packed with nonsense. An author, painter or sculptor stands a chance of living in name, but no one else has a ghost of a chance.”
“Are you prepared to spend some money on this game?” asked Bill Crocker. “The Bank offers a big reward for the man, with all expenses. I’m going to try and get him.”
“Try for it,” repeated the Chief of Police. “We’re prepared to do all the Bank would—and then some,” added Lonsdale calmly. “Eh, Miss Burrows? But we want the auto more than the man.”
“That is true,” agreed Mary Louise, “and yet I will leave the whole matter in your hands. With Charlie Lonsdale, who is regarded as an especially clever Chief, and Josie O’Gorman, whom I have evidence to prove is the brightest girl detective in America, and Bill Crocker of Boston, who is regarded with such awe by his confreres, we certainly ought to win against one common soldier who has turned criminal because he likes a pretty automobile and thinks it safe to steal it from a country town.”
“You forget yourself and your own talents, my dear,” said Josie.