“Honest, it’s so!” protested Joe. “I’ve followed them all the way from their house. They’re bicycle thieves. The furniture’s just to fool folks. The bicycles are underneath. I know!”
The man looked less assured. “Well, that’s funny,” he said. “Hold on, what was the number?”
“21,678,” answered Joe.
“Wrong, son. That car’s number is 5,906. I’ve seen it two—three times and I remember. I’ve got a habit of noticing number plates.”
“They changed it this evening,” said Joe. “Won’t you please telephone?”
“Changed it? Well, say, I didn’t look at the number just now. All right, but, look here, kid, if this is some silly hoax I’ll get in a dickens of a mess with the Winsted police! Sure you ain’t stringing me? Sure you know what you’re talking about?”
Joe nodded dumbly. The man grunted, still doubtful, but put in the call. Then, while he waited, he eyed Joe dubiously. “Say,” he began, “if you’re double-crossing me—” He broke off then. “Hello! Police Headquarters? Huh? Well, say this is Perkins, Harry Perkins, out at the filling station on the Bluffs Road. Yeah! Say, there’s a kid here—yeah, young fellow—that’s right. He wants you to stop a car that just went through here, number 21,678, he says. He says the guys in it are a couple of thieves and that they’ve got the car filled with bicycles swiped over in Central. Huh? Yeah, that’s right, two, one, six, seven, eight. All right, I’ll hold it.”
“Did he—is he going to do it?” asked Joe eagerly.
“Guess so. He told me to hold the line. Probably—hello! What? Sure, here he is!” He motioned Joe and put the receiver in his hand. “Wants to talk to you,” he explained.
From far away came a faint, gruff voice. “Hello! Where’d you get that story from, my boy?”