“No, Bob, I can’t say he did. Talked like as American, as far as I could judge.”
“Then he must have dropped his pretended Italian jargon along with his hair and whiskers,” thought the young detective. “Well, things are beginning to work out—though what the end will be I can’t tell.” Aloud, to the agent, he said:
“Well, I guess I’ll be getting along if I’m going to beat the milk, though that won’t be so hard. She’s got a bad grade ahead of her up Storm Mountain. Much obliged for your information, Mr. Dawson.”
“Don’t mention it, Bob. Hope you make out all right with your case.”
“Thanks, I hope I do.”
“I reckon, before long, you’ll be on the police force of some big city, Bob.”
“No such luck as that, Mr. Dawson. But that’s what I’m working for. Good-night.”
“Good-morning, you mean!” chuckled Mr. Dawson as he smiled at the lad. “It’ll soon be daylight.”
So it will. Well, I’ve got to get a hustle on.
The young detective found Constable Tarton on night duty at police headquarters. Mr. Tarton had considerable respect for Bob, for he knew of the outcome of the case of the Golden Eagle. In fact Caleb would rather work with Bob than with Chief Miles Duncan.