Fudge hesitated and tried to retreat, but Perry insisted on being informed, and finally Fudge told about the “Ode to Spring” and the fun the fellows were having with him. “I get it on all sides,” he said mournfully. “Tappen passed me a note in Latin class this morning; wanted to know what the other reasons were. Half the fellows in school are on to it and I don’t hear anything else. I’m sick of it!”
Perry’s eyes twinkled, but he expressed proper sympathy, and Fudge finally consented to forget his grievance and lend a critical eye to the doings of the baseball candidates. They didn’t remain until practice was over, however, for, in his capacity of “Young Sleuth,” Fudge was determined to unravel the mystery of the cowboy-pianist, as he called the subject for investigation. The afternoon performance at the moving picture theater was over about half-past four or quarter to five, and a few minutes after four the two boys left the field and went back to town. Fudge explained the method of operation on the way.
“We’ll wait outside the theater,” he said. “I’ll be looking in a window and you can be on the other side of the street. He mustn’t see us, you know.”
“Why?” asked Perry.
“Because he might suspect.”
“Suspect what?”
“Why, that we were on his track,” explained Fudge a trifle impatiently. “You don’t suppose detectives let the folks they are shadowing know it, do you?”
“I don’t see what harm it would do if he saw us. There isn’t anything for him to get excited about, is there?”
“You can’t tell. I’ve been thinking a lot about this chap, Perry, and the more I—the more I study the case the less I like it.” Fudge frowned intensely. “There’s something mighty suspicious about him, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done something.”
“What do you mean, done something?”