“Of course,” drawled Monty, “I’m supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
Jimmy winked slowly. “You are. Bixby recognized you.”
“I don’t know him personally, but I’ve used his blacking.”
“You put your head in his room and asked for me, you idiot. That was a crazy thing to do. But they say criminals always fall down somewhere on the job.”
“Oh, that was Bixby, was it? And he up and spoke a piece?”
“Not Bix! Bix is all right. He told me in confidence, and you can depend on his keeping mum.”
“I always liked his blacking,” said Monty gratefully. “Well, then, why the stampede? Why look up trains, Jimmy?”
“Because Rumford’s hopping, tearing mad, darling. Says you—meaning whoever did it—tried to fasten the crime on him. He’s gone and told Charley. Says he will find the culprit if he has to question every fellow in school. He will, too. He’s like that. All the—er—tenacity of a bulldog; without his forgiving disposition. That was mistake number two, old dear. ‘Anyone but Jimmy’ should have been your motto.”
The nine o’clock bell rang, and Jimmy turned back along the path. But Monty grabbed him. “I guess I’m sort of boneheaded, Jimmy,” he said, “but kindly tell me where Rumford comes in on it. What did I do to him, Jimmy?”
“What did you do to him?” demanded the other incredulously as he led the pace back to School Hall. “Why, you triple-ply, self-starting idiot, you dumped the keys on his table!”