“Quit your fooling,” said Jim. “If that fellow wasn’t Bugs Hartley, then my eyes are going back on me.”
“You’re dreaming,” Joe retorted. “What in the world would Bugs be doing in Denver?”
“Panhandling, maybe,” returned Jim. “Drinking, certainly. But it isn’t what he’s doing that interests me. It’s the fact that he’s here.”
“Let’s take a look,” suggested Joe, impressed by his friend’s earnestness.
They went up to the swinging door, pushed it 105 open and looked in. There were perhaps a dozen men in the place, but Hartley was not among them.
“Barking up the wrong tree, Jim,” chaffed Joe.
“Maybe,” agreed Jim a little perplexed, “but if it wasn’t Bugs it was his double.”
They reached the post-office and after mailing their letters turned back towards the hotel.
“It’s taken us a little longer than I thought,” remarked Jim, looking at his watch. “We won’t have any more than time to get our traps together and get down to the train.”
“This looks like a short cut,” said Joe, indicating a side street which though rather dark and deserted cut into the main thoroughfare, as they could see by the bright lights at the further end. “We’ll save something by going this way.”