“Yes,” responded Joe, “but I’m sure he’s all right. I don’t believe you want him.”
“No, he’s not on our list,” agreed Regan. “Well, say, I guess I could do that for you, Joe. Only one thing, though. If Farley or I happen in there there may be a scare, and the birds we want will get away.”
“How can we do it, then?” asked Joe.
A figure came shuffling up the dark street, and, at the sight of the two detectives and the young pitcher, hesitated near a gas lamp.
“Hello! There’s Bulldog!” exclaimed Regan, but in a low voice. “He’ll do. We’ll send him in and have him tip Pop off to come out. Bulldog is on our staff,” he added. “He tips us off to certain things. Here, Bulldog!” he called, and a short, squat man shuffled up. His face had a canine expression, which, Joe surmised, had gained him his name.
“Slip into Genty’s place, Bulldog,” said Regan in a low voice, “and tell a certain party to get out before the bulls come. Do you know Pop Dutton?”
“Sure. He and I——”
“Never mind about that part of it,” interrupted the detective. “Just do as I tell you, and do it quietly. You can stay in. You might pick up something that would help us.”
“What, me stay in there when the place is going to be pulled, and get pinched? Not on your life!” and the man turned away.