There was no manner of use in struggling, but the latter asked our hero:
“You know these fellows, it seems; are you a detective?”
“What do you think about it?” asked Bar. “I never saw either of them before, but I know that man for a professional pickpocket, and this one for his bonnet—his bully.”
“One of ’em’s got that money, then!” exclaimed the big man. “Come, my fine fellow, shell over. I knew the railroad company had set detectives on the express trains, but I’d never have taken them boys for ’em.”
“Me?” exclaimed Val, indignantly; “I’m a son of Dr. Randall Manning, of New York, and this is my friend, Mr. Barnaby Vernon.”
“It’s all right,” said the big man. “Go by any name you please. Only it’s a great credit to the company, and I wonder they didn’t think of it before.”
At the word “detective,” the two pickpockets seemed to give the matter up, and in a minute more the ladies had counted their returned “valuables,” and declared them all right.
“Now, Mr. Vernon,” said the big man to Bar, “what are we to do with these men?”
“Put them in charge of the conductor,” said Bar. “I’ve got another errand on hand.”
It happened, however, that when the conductor, who speedily arrived, was appealed to, he at once produced from another car, a “sure enough” official detective, and the big man winked at Bar, and said: