“And how!” the boy grinned, feeling cheerful immediately.
“He’s been acting like it’s a picnic, boss,” Dick Hallam interposed gaily.
“Fine,” said the detective. “You want to keep it up, kid—you’ve nothing to fear—not a thing! Everything’s been arranged, and I don’t think you’ll have to spend more than a night or two at Delafield. Meanwhile, what time you do spend, you’ll have someone watching close at hand so never feel you’re alone. The warden and a few trusted guards know of our little game, but of course you’re to speak to no one about it unless you’re spoken to first. Now—you remember all the signals?”
“Yes sir—everythin’!”
Dick Hallam grinned. “He’s just nervous about riding up with that rough neck gang that’s been sentenced today, boss. Especially one tough kid named Nickie Fallon who got seven years for trying his hand at a hold-up and carrying a gun. Some character, that kid.”
“I know,” Conne said understandingly, “that’s the only disagreeable part of this job, kid. But I warned you what the company would be like.”
“Aw gee, Mr. Conne, I ain’t afraida that. I was just wonderin’ if they’d be the kind of guys what start a fight on the way an’ if they did what would I do, huh?”
“How would you act if you were riding up with that bunch to start a real sentence, eh? Well kid, get yourself in the state of mind that it is real and act accordingly.”
Skippy did just that. About six o’clock a court attendant led him out to a closed car. Four boys ranging from about his own age to seventeen years sat inside and eyed him sullenly as he crowded his slim body among them to make the fifth passenger on the back seat. Two detectives followed and took the chairs before them; another detective sat ahead on the seat beside the driver.
“Well, if it ain’t John Doe—the kid hisself!” a hoarse voice whispered beside him.