“He’ll be easy to find, Bob. Every resident here wants a chance at picking his bones, and for the one who gets him there’ll be a dozen envious ones ready to squeal. A stool-pigeon will tip the police off as to what den this fellow was hauled into, and they can take him out. There’s time enough—he won’t give up his roll easily. It takes a little time to work the game and before it’s played out I’ll have the officers here.”
Content with this Bob followed the chief out of the vile and evil district. The telephone tip was gladly received, for the police of Cardiff were not anxious to have it broadcasted that irresponsible and foolish strangers were robbed, even along the Barbary Coast. Word was given to the chief, who, of course, did not reveal his identity, that the matter would be looked after.
Having done their duty, Bob and the chief returned to the district long enough to see the clanging wagon rumble in and take away the “elephant hunter.” He had been enticed into one of the dens, but, as Mr. Duncan had said, some one “squealed,” and the police easily located the place.
“Well, I guess this ends it, Bob,” remarked the head of the Cliffside police. “It was a wild goose chase.”
“I wish it had been a wild duck,” murmured Bob.
“Why?”
“Well, a duck’s back would have shed water better than mine. I’m soaked.”
“So ’m I. But it couldn’t be helped. You’ll have to get used to worse than this, Bob, if you’re going to be a detective. And not only one night but many nights in succession.”
“Oh, I know that. I’m not kicking. Only I wish we had picked up Rod.”
“So do I. But it wasn’t to be. It was a good tip, as far as it went. But I guess Rod is safe enough, for a time. But we’ll have another shot at finding him.”