“In the press room,” said Millie, but her hand slipped, as she spoke, and all the type in her half filled “stick” went rattling down on the floor.
“That’s all pi,” laughed the policeman as he strode on to the press room door.
“Kirby,” he said, “did you hear about the escape of those young fellows, last night, from the House of Refuge?”
“Got out, did they?” asked Mr. Kirby. “I guess it isn’t in the papers.”
“Too soon,” said the officer. “I don’t believe they want it printed, either. It’s no fault of theirs, but they want to catch the boys. Smartest escape——” and then he went on with an account of it which contained as many blunders as Jim was just then making in his type-setting. At the end of it, however, the officer said:
“You see, two of ’em are printers, and one’s a pretty good one. They’re likely to look for work in their own trade, soon as they can get off their prison rig. If they should come to you, now——”
“A boy’d be just hidden away in one of the big printing houses, down town,” said Mr. Kirby. “You couldn’t find him.”
“Yes, we could,” said the officer. “Every man and boy in each one of them is already registered by the place itself and by the trades unions. We could find out just where he came from.”
“Then why don’t you register my office?” asked Mr. Kirby. “You can take down the name of every fellow here, this morning, so that if any new fellow should come you could mark him. Register me.”
“I don’t need to,” said the officer. “Nor your daughter, nor the hands. I’ll remember all of ’em, well enough. If I see a new boy here, any time, I can ask about him.”