“You’ve got me,” grinned the detective. “I was going to make some fool crack like that!”
Poodle hastened out to get a couple of sandwiches and a cup of coffee, engaged a room, and settled down for his six-hour wait till midnight, in the lobby, telephoning his whereabouts to the Lieutenant.
He did not expect to see Mr. P. J. Jolls that evening, but he did—once. The man came down in an elevator, crossed the lobby, bought some papers, and returned to his room. He went quickly, as though he were in hiding. He glanced about the lobby, with an anxious expression in his fat, mean face, but he didn’t notice the cheerful youngster who was so deep sunk in the big chair nearest the elevator.
Next morning, at a quarter to six, one Poodle Darby was very busily engaged in sleeping, with his head deeply buried in a pillow. The detective, entering by means of a pass-key, stood by the bed, grinned, then began to tickle Poodle’s happy red ears till Poodle awoke and stared up, wondering why and where and what.
“Hawlf awfter steen, me lud, and the bawth waits,” announced the detective.
Poodle’s first reply was a remarkable combination of a yawn, a stretch, a sigh, and “Gee, I’m sleepy,” all of which, taken together, sounded very much like “Ughff—F!” Then he regarded the detective with extreme disfavor and added, “You talk like a little green wagon. Oh, say, has the motor car come yet?”
“No. It ain’t due yet. Jolls didn’t order it to come till six-twenty.”
“I mean the one for me.”
“For you? You didn’t say anything about that.”
“GEE! Did I forget it? I’ve got to have one—to follow him.”