He relaxed immediately and his face crinkled in a smile. With a weather eye on the landing above and the landing below he hastily removed his coat and tore from his new white shirt a goodly strip of the muslin. This had the effect of setting his collar and tie somewhat awry but he hadn’t time to worry over that detail. He was too busy improvising a presentable sling in which to rest his left arm. He had a momentary impulse to bandage his head also, but he was too true an artist to overdo the thing.
Be that as it may, luck was with him, for a moment later, when he presented himself at the International offices, he found a small group of men, presumably detectives, talking earnestly in the reception room. One glance at Skippy and two of the men hurried forward to open the door just beyond.
“Here y’are, kid—this way,” said one, smilingly. “You’ll see a door to your right marked Carlton Conne—Private—that’s where you’re to go. Mr. Conne wants to see some of you kids.”
Skippy grinned amiably.
He was not afraid, as he trudged manfully into the holy of holies to confront the famous head of the world-renowned detective agency, whose picture he had so many times seen in the newspapers.
The great detective was not an awe-inspiring spectacle. He sat in his shirt sleeves, his chair tilted back and his feet resting on the desk. He was a stocky, middle-aged man with a bristly moustache and a crisp, aggressive look. Also he was smoking a long black cigar (Skippy soon learned that this was a fixed habit with the man) which he dexterously moved from one end of his mouth to the other as he talked. When he listened, he had a way of tilting it at an upright angle which gave him a very shrewd and sophisticated air. It was this attitude that captivated Skippy.
“Well,” he said in his gruff, yet kindly manner, “you’re one of the kids that got in the way of that stolen car, eh? Your arm’s busted, eh?”
“No sir,” Skippy answered promptly with unabashed frankness. “My name’s Skippy Dare an’ I just wanted to get in here—kind of—so—so I could talk to you. But....”
Carlton Conne brought his feet down from the desk and stared. “But the sling—what’s it for?”
“That typewriter girl,” said Skippy rapidly, “she said I couldn’t see you about a job—that you didn’t need nobody.”