He knew that he had on his person only one article that would point to his vocation, which he was prepared to deny in the face even of that.
It came to light in a moment—his trusty revolver.
“Aha! what’s this?” cried Conley, as he yanked the weapon from Patsy’s hip pocket. “So you carry a gun, do you?”
“Sure I do,” asserted Patsy coolly. “You’d carry a gun, too, if there were as many rats in your cellar as there are in mine.”
“It’s you who are the rat,” Badger angrily growled, as his confederate displayed the weapon.
“You’re wrong, mister,” insisted Patsy. “I’m a ratter, but no rat.”
“What d’ye mean by that?” snarled Conley fiercely.
“I mean that I’m a hunter of rats,” said Patsy, with dry significance.
“You’re a detective,” cried Badger.