All eyes turned in astonishment at Tom Bob, who went on:
“A detective, and above all an American detective, owes it to himself to discover in any assemblage of people, no matter what, any pickpockets therein, and this at the first glance.”
The young Frenchman started poking merciless fun at the sententious and dogmatic language used by the American detective:
“And pray, sir, by what do you know them?”
Tom Bob looked the youth up and down from head to foot, and said nothing for a moment or two. Then he replied: “By their boots.”
His audience held their sides. Decidedly Mr. Tom Bob was an original and diverting travelling companion, and everybody crowded to the far end of the corridor where he stood ensconced in a corner. The American detective proceeded to harangue his listeners.
“The pickpockets on trains de luxe,” he declared, “have this much in common with the officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, that they are usually ill-shod. With one class as with the other, there is nothing, speaking generally, to find fault with in the get-up. Hat from the best maker, clothes of an irreproachable cut, tasteful necktie, well-kept hands, everything proclaims the man of the world; but there is a small detail, a grain of sand, the proverbial grain of sand that throws the best adjusted machine out of gear, and that grain of sand is nothing more nor less than the footwear ...”
Tom Bob broke off, and turning to the young Frenchman who was listening with a highly quizzical smile:
“Sir,” he asked, “will you allow me to ask you a question—what is your profession?”
At this direct and almost peremptory demand, the youth blushed in some embarrassment. The answer came in a dull, heavy voice: