“You’ve got to be quick then,” remarked the young detective. “There goes some one after him now.”
A moment later there darted from one of the evil buildings, a slouching figure of a man. The shaft of light from the open door put him in dark relief. He ran to the swaying, staggering figure of the singer, who was now mumbling to himself, clapped it jovially on the back and cried:
“Come on, Jack! We’ve been looking for you! Everything is all ready! Right in here, Jack! Everything’s lovely!”
He swung the victim around, and the latter, taken by surprise, followed for a few steps. Then, as Bob and the chief watched, the singer unexpectedly stiffened and braced himself back.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Hold on! Where you goin’?”
“For a good time, Jack! To see the elephants you know!”
“Yep—I know! I seen elephants before—big ones, too—in India! I’m elephant hunter, I am—but my name ain’t Jack.”
“Oh, well, Jill then—Jack or Jill, it’s all the same to me. I’m a friend of yours.”
But a spirit of opposition had been awakened in the victim. It was a small matter—that of a name, but small matters turn the tide in cases like these.
“If you’re friend of mine, you oughter know my name,” went on the celebrator, swaying and reeling as the other held him up, “You tell me my name an’ I’ll go with you.”