"Changed my plan, Jurgens," replied Whistler. "Conduct us into the front room where the light is better. I've a surprise for you."
Jurgens gave a sharp look in the fugitive's direction, turned and led the way into an apartment where the late afternoon sun rendered objects clearer to the eye.
"What!" he cried, startled. "Matt King!" He whirled angrily on Whistler. "What do you mean by bringing him here?"
"Don't go off the jump, Jurgens," answered Whistler, "until you learn more. Bangs went with me to the landing, and just as I was about to go on the boat I caught sight of King. I wondered why he was got up like that, and I believed that he was watching me. While I was wondering whether I should go on the boat, or not, this lad turned a little trouble on the levee. Those two chums of his, the sailor and the Dutchman, signaled and one of them laid a letter on a cotton bale. King went forward to get it and a spark from his cigarette fired the bale. A policeman started after him, and I motioned for him to come to the carriage. I saw, then, that he didn't know me. He accepted my invitation and I brought him away. Now we can make him tell us what his game is, and we can have a look at that letter."
Joe Dashington listened to all this with a surprised grin.
"I suppose I ought to have heart failure over this," he remarked, "but, somehow, it don't phase me. I can't be much worse off than I am, no matter what happens. When you gents find out you've made a sucker play, perhaps you'll tell me how I can turn enough of the ready for a board bill and a place to pound my ear."
"He's trying to tell me that his name's not King," scoffed Whistler.
Jurgens, deeply interested, laid his head on one side and studied the youth at some length.
"His face is King's, plain enough," said he finally, "but he's rigged out like a hoodlum and talks like a beachcomber. What's the answer?"
"I'm by," laughed Joe Dashington. "You fellows tell me."