“I’m after that thousand, sonny!”
“What?”
“I saw Hannington’s horse painted. I know who did it and I’m going to lay information.”
Phil gaped.
As Jim was proceeding outside, Phil ran after him and laid hold on his arm.
“Wait a bit, old man! Let me get this right,” he 247 said slowly. “Do you mean to say you are going to play informer for a thousand dirty dollars?”
“Why not? I’m the only man who saw it done. There are mighty few in town who wouldn’t do the same thing if they knew what I know. Besides, the fellow who did it darned-well deserves all that he gets. I’ve no love for him, and I need the money. Good-bye, Philly! I’ll see you anon.”
He went downstairs, opened the front door cautiously and, finding few people about, he hurried along the block and down the back lanes to the rear of The Advertiser building. He sneaked unseen into Ben Todd’s private office. There was no one inside. Ben, evidently, was in the basement in the printing shop.
The editor’s desk was littered as usual with newspapers, scribbled scraps of paper, cuttings, paste-pots and such paraphernalia of the making of a country newspaper.
Jim closed the door, sat down in Todd’s chair and took up the telephone receiver. He called for DeRue Hannington and got him without difficulty.