Nick followed him inside, and Turner offered him a rocker near the open window. The whole house was as neat and clean as if it had the care of a woman.
"Now, mister," said Turner, "what hev ye got on yer mind?"
"In the first place," replied Nick, in his natural voice, "I am not what I seem to be. I am not a lumberman, or a Frenchman—or a Canadian. I am a detective."
"Sho! You don't say so. Well, that beats me. Sure, ye do it fine, mister. I would never hev suspected at all that you are not what you seem. But go on."
"I have come here after that gang of hoboes who infest the neighborhood for fifty or sixty miles around this place. I am principally after the woman who is their chief. Do you know who I mean?"
"I reckon ye must be referrin' to that there Black Madge and her gang."
"That's right."
"Well, yer up agin' a proposition. That's all I kin say about it."
"I know that; and what I want of you is to get you to help me with that proposition, Bill Turner."
"Ain't I too old?"