"He's a sleut', boss."
"A what?"
"A sleut'."
"A detective?"
"Dat's right. A fly cop."
"What makes you think that?"
"T'ink! Why, I can tell dem by deir eyes an' deir feet, an' de whole of dem. I could pick out a fly cop from a bunch of a t'ousand. He's a sure 'nough sleut' all right, all right. I seen him rubber in' at youse, boss."
"At me! Why at me? Why, of course. I see now. Our friend McEachern has got him in to spy on us."
"Dat's right, boss."
"Of course, you may be mistaken."