An amiable grin overspread Average Jones’ face.
“You’ve got more nerve than prudence,” he observed. “But I don’t say you aren’t right. Since you’re going to stick to the ship, keep your eye on that gum. If it lets go its hold, wire me.”
“All right,” agreed young Mr. Dorr. “Whatever your little game is, I’ll play it. Give me your address in case you leave town.”
“As I may do. I am going to hire a press-clipping bureau on special order to dig through the files of the local and neighboring city newspapers for recent items concerning dog-poisoning cases. If our unknown has devised a new method of canicide, it’s quite possible he may have worked it somewhere else, too. Good-by, and if you can’t be wise, be careful.”
Dog-poisoning seemed to Average Jones to have become a popular pastime in and around New York, judging from the succession of news items which poured in upon him from the clipping bureau. Several days were exhausted by false clues. Then one morning there arrived, among other data, an article from the Bridgeport Morning Delineator which caused the Ad-Visor to sit up with a jerk. It detailed the poisoning of several dogs under peculiar circumstances. Three hours later he was in the bustling Connecticut city. There he took carriage for the house of Mr. Curtis Fleming, whose valuable Great Dane dog had been the last victim.
Mr. Curtis Fleming revealed himself as an elderly, gentleman all grown to a point: pointed white nose, eyes that were pin-points of irascible gleam, and a most pointed manner of speech.
“Who are you?” he demanded rancidly, as his visitor was ushered in.
Average Jones recognized the type. He knew of but one way to deal with it.
“Jones!” he retorted with such astounding emphasis that the monosyllable fairly exploded in the other’s face.
“Well, well, well,” said the elder man, his aspect suddenly mollified. “Don’t bite me. What kind of a Jones are you, and what do you want of me?”