“How’d do, Artie,” said the storekeeper. “When are you going back?”
“About as soon as I can get there now, Ben,” replied the youth, yawning. “I like to come up and see the folks, all right, but it’s deadly dull here. I want a little bit more of the electric lights and something going on at night. Not much like Baltimore down here.”
“No, I guess not,” admitted the other. “I hear you’re doing pretty well up there—let’s see, what is it you’re in?”
The youth paused a moment, then replied, “Oh, I’m running things for a contractor. Expect I’ll go in with him some day, when I get a couple of thousand more put away.”
Captain Bill, turning to observe the youth who was speaking, gave a start of astonishment. He turned away again, but cast several sharp glances at the young man from the corners of his eyes.
“Well, I’m blest if it isn’t Artie Jenkins,” he muttered. “The measly little crimp!”
Which term, be it known, is that applied to those engaged in that peculiar calling in which young Artie Jenkins was a bright and shining light—the trapping of unfortunate victims and selling them to the dredgers and such other craft as could make use of them.
Some time later, Captain Bill followed the youth outside the store and hailed him, as the latter was walking away.
“Hello,” he said, “wait a minute.”
The young man turned and stared at the stranger in surprise.