"Where—did—you—where is Skinny?" I asked him.
"Ever see a tiger use a crutch before?" he said. "I'm a punk tiger— what d'ye say."
"Royal—Royal Bengal," Westy said.
"The kid is down near the Hudson shore," Bert said, in that easy way he had; "he's at Camp McCord. He's come up in the world since you saw him."
"Bert," I said, "tell me—tell us—quick."
"Not much to tell," he said, "except Skinny and I are both on the job.
We're in the hands of the Gold Dust Twins."
"The which?" I blurted out.
"That's them," he said, "and if you ever want to guy those fellows you'd better not do it when I'm around. They're fourteen karat gold dust, that's what. Skinny walked around to their camp this morning, to ask them not to believe that he took the money."
"Poor little codger," Westy said.
"Oh, he isn't so poor," Bert said. "He's in soft with that pair. He went around and asked them please not to believe it—please. Do you get that? Please. He asked them not to take the money if anyone gave it to them, because it really wasn't theirs. That's him. They kept him to lunch and told him they believed him and that nobody could cram any money down their throats with a ramrod. Hey? What do you think of that?"