“Good-night, Runyon. I won't wait.”
They separated, one man hurrying off for home and a bed, Du Bois lingering at the gate for a look up and down the line of the fence; Runyon and George, their lanterns darkened, slipping stealthily away into the shadow.
“I seen somethin' over there by the mill,” said Runyon, in a subdued voice, “like it was a tramp that had dumb the fence by the bridge and was sneakin' along the bank. Here, now, hold on a minute,”—he caught the boy's arm—“I was a-standin' right here. Now look down between them piles—past the mill. See that little strip o' the river where the bridge light's a-shinin'? It looked to me like somethin' black went acrost it.”
They went on, giving a quarter of an hour to winding through the alleys, throwing a light into every dark corner. “A feller can't be expected to see everything—not in yards as big as these here. We needn't go out around the P'int. I guess there ain't nothin'. Here's Du Bois a-waitin' by the Number One. I'll leave you with him. You got a whistle, ain't you?”
“Yes; Mr. Halloran gave me one.”
“You know about it? If you blow, it means fire. So don't get gay with it.”
“Hallo, there,” said Du Bois, as they joined him on the wharf in the little patch of light that fell from the steamer's engine-room. “You're purty poor. Where's your tramp?”
“He wasn't to home. We 'lowed we'd call again. So long.”
“So long, there.”
The engine-room was snug and comfortable, a capital headquarters for patrol duty. So the old Inspector took immediate precedence of his associate. “Now, young man, we'll have to break you in first thing. You better go over and patrol the fence f'r'n hour. Then you come back here and report. Be kind o' cautiouslike about your whistle.”