He waved his hand toward Joe Rodgers.
“Me—me?” cried Joe. Then an inkling of the true situation for the first time dawned upon him. “Oh, Dave, I’m ketched!” he exclaimed, almost pitifully. “Whiffin’s done it. I might have know’d he would! But I ain’t never goin’ back—perlice, or no perlice,” he added.
Joe, blank with despair, as new-found hopes were shaken, stared moodily at the floor.
“Now I suppose you’ll have to get a hundred thousand dollars bail, Rodgers,” said Victor. “Of course, this is one of the most important cases of the year.”
“Well, what’s he goin’ to do with me?” demanded Joe. “I’m goin’ ter stand up for me rights.”
“You must be detained until the arrival of the complainant”—the sergeant glanced at a paper in his hand—“Peter Whiffin. You look like a respectable crowd of boys,” he added, taking a careful observation of the faces before him.
“I’ve never pinched a better lot,” agreed the policeman.
“Sergeant, may I have the use of your ’phone for a moment?” spoke up Dave.
“Certainly!” answered the official.
In a short time Dave, his mouth at the transmitter, was explaining matters to Captain Bunderley.