He strolled across the highway and accosted the detective with whom he had a slight acquaintance.
“Oh, it’s Matson, the Pittston pitcher!” exclaimed the officer.
“What’s up, Regan?” asked Joe.
“Oh, nothing much. Do you know Farley, my side partner? Farley, this is Matson—Baseball Joe, they call him. Some nifty little pitcher, too, let me tell you.”
“Thanks,” laughed Joe, as he shook hands with the other detective.
“Why, we’re looking for a certain party,” went on Regan. “I don’t mind telling you that. We’ll probably pull that place soon,” and he nodded toward the lodging house. “Some of the regulars will be along in a little while,” he added.
“Pull,” I may explain, is police language for “raid,” or search a certain suspected place.
“Anything big?” asked Joe.
“Oh, nothing much. There’s been some pocket-picking going on, and a few railroad jobs pulled off. A lot of baggage belonging to wealthy folks has been rifled on different lines, all over the country, and we think we’re on the track of some of the gang. We’re going to pull the place and see how many fish we can get in the net.”
Joe did not know what to do. If the place was to be raided soon it might mean that his friend, the old pitcher, would be among those arrested. Joe was sure of his friend’s innocence, but it would look bad for him, especially after the life he had led. It might also be discouraging to Pop, and send him back to his old companions again.