Thus the Rat lurked about the river at night, gathering scraps of information which might be sold for a price to certain gentlemen who wished to know such things.
Was the Rat particular regarding the character of his customers? Probably not. Some were favored before others, for all that. Tom Howe and Johnny Thompson might have his services at their very best, and that with no thought of charge. Every creature, even a rat, has a sense of gratitude. Johnny Thompson, who, as you will recall, was a great friend of Drew Lane and Tom Howe, had once found the Rat dying of fever. He and Howe had saved him from the hospital, which he dreaded with the fear of death, by hiring a nurse to care for him in his river front hovel.
Now, after an all-night search at Howe’s request, he had something of importance to report.
The Rat had a way of seeming in a great rush. He puffed as he talked and from time to time his sharp nose shot forward, his small black eyes popped just as a rat’s will.
“Dat speed boat, it—it—dat boat,” he puffed now, “you know de Wop what camps under de Twelfth Street bridge?”
“Yes, I know,” Howe replied eagerly.
“De Wop saw it. Fine speed boat. Very fast.”
“What color?”
“Col-color? Can’t see. Too dark.
“You know de Chink got laundry by de river just past de scrap yard?”