The Boy Broker Part 10

"It'll be too big for one detective then, I s'pose?"

"That's the idea, Tom. Then I'll call you in," said Bob, with the swell of a professional.

"I wish 'twas all worked up, Bob, so you'd want to call me in now, as you call it. It'll be exciting, won't it?"

"Well, I should think it would, before we get through with it."

"Say, Bob, will there be any fightin'?" asked Tom, eagerly. He was already excited over the prospects.

"Can't say that now--hain't got the case worked up enough to tell.

'Tain't professional to say too much about a case. None of the detectives does it, and why should I? That's what I want to know, Tom Flannery."

"Well, you shouldn't, Bob, if the rest doesn't do it."

"Of course not. It's no use to be a detective, unless the job is done right and professional. I believe in throwin' some style into anything like this. 'Tain't often, you know, Tom, when a feller gets a real genuine case like this one. Why, plenty er boys might make believe they had cases, but they'd be baby cases--only baby cases, Tom Flannery, when you'd compare 'em with this one--a real professional case."

"I don't blame you for bein' proud, Bob," said Tom, admiringly. "I only wish I had such a case."

"Why, you've got it now; you're on it with me, hain't you? Don't you be silly now, Tom. You'll get all you want before you get through with this case; an', when it's all published in the papers, your name will be printed with mine."

"Gewhittaker!" exclaimed Tom; "I didn't think of that before. Will our names really be printed, Bob?"

"Why, of course they will. Detectives' names are always printed, hain't they? You make me tired, Tom Flannery. I should think you'd know better. Don't make yourself so red.i.c.kerlous by askin' any more questions like that. But just you tend to business, and you'll get all the glory you want--professional glory, too."

"It'll beat jumpin' off the Brooklyn Bridge, won't it?" said Tom.

"Well, if you ain't an idiot, Tom Flannery, I never saw one. To think of comparin' a detective with some fool that wants cheap notoriety like that! You just wait till you see your name in big letters in the papers along with mine. It'll be Bob Hunter and Tom Flannery."

Tom's eyes bulged out with pride at the prospect. He had never before realized so fully his own importance.

CHAPTER IX.

BOB a.s.sUMES A DISGUISE.

At the close of business hours, Felix Mortimer sauntered up Broadway with something of an air of triumph about him. His jaw was still swollen, and doubtless pained him not a little.

Another boy pa.s.sed up Broadway at the same time, and only a little way behind Mortimer.

It was Bob Hunter, and he managed to keep the same distance between himself and young Mortimer, whom, in fact, he was "shadowing." Of course, Mortimer knew nothing of this. In fact, he did not know such a boy as Bob Hunter existed.

At the post office Felix Mortimer turned into Park Row. He stopped and read the bulletins at the _Mail and Express_ office. Then he bought an evening paper, and, standing on the steps of the _World_ office, looked it over hastily.

Now he moved on up Publishers' Row, pa.s.sing the _Times_, the _Tribune_, and the _Sun_ buildings, and walked along Chatham Street. Presently he emerged into the Bowery. Now he walked more rapidly than he had been doing, so that Bob had to quicken his pace to keep him in sight.

At the corner of Pell Street and the Bowery he met a young man who seemed to be waiting for him.

"I've been hanging round here for 'most half an hour," said he, as if displeased.

"I'm here on time," replied Felix; "just half past five. Come, let's have a gla.s.s of beer."

Peter Smartweed was the name of this young fellow, as Bob afterwards found out.

When Felix and his friend pa.s.sed into the drinking saloon, Bob followed them as far as the door; then he turned back, and sought the disguise of a bootblack.

A young knight of the brush stood near by, with his blacking box slung over his shoulder. Bob arranged with him for the use of it for a few moments, promising to pay over to him all the proceeds he made thereby.

He also exchanged his own hat for the cap the boy had on, and, with this head gear pulled down over the left side of his face, the appearance of Bob Hunter was much changed. His accustomed step, quick, firm, and expressive, was changed to that of the nerveless, aimless boy--a sort of shuffle.

Thus disguised, he approached Felix Mortimer and his companion, who were sitting at a table with a partially filled schooner of beer before each of them.

"Shine? shine, boss?" said Bob, in a strange voice.

No response was made by the convivial youths.

"Two for five!" continued Bob, persistently. "Two reg'lar patent leathers for only five cents!"

Peter looked at his boots. They were muddy. Then he argued with himself that Felix had paid for the beer, so it seemed to him that he could not even up the score in any less expensive way than by paying for the shines.

"Do you mean you will give us both a shine for five cents?" said Peter.

"Yes," drawled Bob, lazily.

"Well, see that they are good ones, now, or I'll not pay you a cent."

Bob commenced work on the shoes very leisurely. He seemed the embodiment of stupidity, and blundered along in every way possible to prolong the time.

"How would you like to climb down, Mort, and shine shoes for a living?"

said Peter Smartweed, jokingly.

"Perhaps I wouldn't mind it if I was stupid as the kid fumbling around your shoes seems to be," replied Felix, in a more serious mood than his companion.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BOB HUNTER PLAYS THE DETECTIVE.]

"Well, I think you looked even more stupid than this young Arab last night, when you lay upon the floor."

"Well, I guess you would have felt stupid, too, if you had got such a clip as I did," retorted Felix, as he nursed his swollen jaw with his hand.

"It was a stunning blow, for a fact. John L. Sullivan couldn't have done it neater. I didn't think, Mort, that that young countryman could hit such a clip, did you?"

"No, I didn't; and I'm mighty sure you don't realize now what a stinging blow he hit me. You talk about it as if it didn't amount to much. Well, all I've got to say is, I don't want to see you mauled so, but I wish you knew how good it felt to be floored the way I was."

"No, thank you," said Peter; "I don't want any of it. But you looked so comical, as you fell sprawling, that I couldn't help laughing. I believe I would have laughed if you had been killed."

Bob Hunter's ears were now wide open.