“Who are they and what is the matter?” Ralph asked, trying to show no especial interest beyond a perfectly natural one.
But his companion showed no sign of wishing to be secretive.
“Don’t know,” he returned. “If I did, I’d have had them out of mischief before this. There has been a gang of strikers hanging around somewhere in this neighborhood—no one knows the exact place. But there is no reason for suspecting them, except that they are down on the company. Funny, I’ve been watching around here for several days and haven’t even run across anybody to talk to before! At least no one but a boy who looked like he ought to be home with his mother.”
Ralph laughed.
“A kind of a tenderfoot like I am?”
The other man grinned.
“Oh, he was a good deal younger than you. We have so many travelers from the East out in this neighborhood now, that we have forgotten to call ’em ‘tenderfeet.’ This boy was a kid—a real kid—tall and sick looking, with light hair and blue eyes and nice manners.”
Ralph nodded.
“Funny, what was he doing around here? There is no hotel very near, is there?”
The older man shook his head.