“Time’s short—come on!”
Skippy could still feel the strong, firm clasp of Timmy’s handshake long after the ancient car clattered out of the back yard. He felt restless, and Nickie, that heroic defier of man-made petty laws, seemed stunned and fearful.
Shorty and Biff, a little too blunt to be long affected by anything, were comfortably seated again at the table arguing in their native tongue over a game of cards. Frost was seated opposite them, absorbed in a New York newspaper.
“All along I been sorta thinkin’ we might be layin’ it on kinda thick,” Nickie whispered at Skippy’s side. “Know what I mean? Aw, I thought mebbe we’d got thinkin’ the worsta Devlin counta that funeral pan he’s got an’ the house an’ all—see? People get jumpy just talkin’ bout ghosts, don’t they? Well, that’s what I mean—I thought we got thinkin’ he’s a killer like Timmy done an’ we couldn’t thinka him as nothin’ else. Up till just before they beat it I tells myself mebbe it’s just his old racket, the swindlin’ game that he’s workin’ in a new way with us kids as fall guys—see? But when I sees his face an’ his eyes all funny an’ starin’ when he tells Timmy to c’mon, I get feelin’ bad inside.”
“Me too,” Skippy agreed, after he had made certain that Frost was not watching them.
“Say, kid,” Nickie said, between half-closed lips, “I ain’t feelin’ we’re thinkin’ the worsta him now. I’m feelin’ that mebbe he’s worse’n’ what we think, he is—see!”
They sauntered toward the table at that juncture for Frost was looking up from his paper. His shrewd, colorless eyes observed them and his thin mouth was wrinkled mirthfully.
“Something in this here paper might give you kids a laff,” he chuckled. “Here, sit down and read it—I gotta go up to my room and do a few things.”
He was still chuckling when he left the kitchen but none of the boys paid him any attention then. They were too interested in the page which Nickie spread out and on which they read the headlines:
HOLD UP POLICE,