“He had several bottles of bromo seltzer on the table before him, and he was uncorking each one, and dropping a lighted match into it to see if he couldn’t make it go off like a flash-light powder.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
A GOOD BAG.
“Whither next?” the Camera Chap inquired, after he had confided to his two companions in the big touring car the details of what had happened inside Dutch Louie’s café.
“I know a cop who goes to sleep every night in a lumber yard on his beat,” Parson announced.
“Lead us to him!” said Hawley eagerly. “That sounds like an easy one, eh, Fred?”
“I really think we’ve got enough already,” Carroll replied anxiously. “After what you’ve just done, old man, I’m beginning to believe that you can get away with anything; but what’s the use of running any more risk than is necessary? You’ve got two good snapshots, and that is quite enough to illustrate our story. Let’s call it a night’s work, Frank, and not tempt fate any more.”
Hawley laughed at this suggestion. “Nothing doing,” he said. “I shan’t consider that we’ve done our duty until we have at least a round half dozen snapshots of delinquent cops in our collection. No use being a piker, Fred. Two pictures on the front page of the Bulletin would make a measly showing. Besides, as I said before, I am by no means confident that Red Horgan’s picture will turn out well. If it’s too poor a negative for reproduction, that would leave us with only one. Lead the way to the cop in the woodpile, Parsons. We cer[Pg 48]tainly can’t afford to pass him up. Is his beat far from here?”
“Yes; it’s at the extreme northern end of the town,” the police reporter replied.
“Don’t you know any others we’ll pass on the way there?” Hawley inquired. “We might as well take them in regular order. It’s growing late, and we haven’t any time to lose.”
“Yes; there’s Mike Harrington, whose beat is on Cedar Street,” Parsons replied promptly. “He generally hangs out in Windmuller’s Café when he’s on night duty. His brother is employed there.”