He was a well-built fellow of some eighteen or nineteen years, rough and uncouth in his dress and speech, but immeasurably superior, as could be seen at a glance, to either of his companions encountered by Frank in the vault.
He rejoiced among his fellow "bats" in the short and easily-remembered appellation of "Jerry Buck."
"Are you sure you'd know the place again, Jerry?" asked Frank, as they walked along.
It was for the purpose of pointing out the house into which the three bank-robbers had disappeared that the two boys had now sallied forth.
"Positive," replied the boy, quickly. "It was down in Cherry street, just behind the Catherine Market. I never let up on 'em till I seed 'em go in."
"There were three of them, you say?"
"Yes—one big feller with a carpet-bag, his head all tied up in a comforter, and two others, one with a big bag over his shoulder, an' the other with nothin' at all."
As Frank said nothing further, and his companion evinced an equal disinclination to talk, the boys, having now turned into Broadway, moved along in silence until they reached the newspaper offices which line the right-hand side of Park Row and Printing House Square.
At each one of these they made a halt, Jerry Buck entering at the basement doors, and elbowing his way among a crowd of men and boys, emerged with an ever increasing bundle of morning papers under his arm.
For Jerry was a newsboy as well as a "bat in the wall," and had his living to get on Sunday as upon the other days of the week.