CHAPTER VIII

BOB OBTAINS A SITUATION

For the moment the sneak-thief did not recognize Bob.

“Not so fast, my friend,” cried the boy.

Bidwell started back.

“What, you!” he exclaimed.

“Exactly, Bidwell, and I want you.”

Bidwell turned and darted across the street. Bob lost no time in following.

Reaching the other side of the thoroughfare, the sneak-thief made off as fast as his long legs would permit.

He was a good runner, and would no doubt have gotten away had not a fortunate accident occurred.

Turning a corner Bidwell ran full-tilt into a stout man who was walking leisurely along, carrying a basket on his arm.

Down went the stout man, with Bidwell on top of him, while the basket with its contents flew in all directions.

“Who--what?” the stout man spluttered.

“Beg pardon,” returned Bidwell, glibly. “It’s a case of life or death--man seriously injured.”

He attempted to rise, but before he could do so Bob had him by the arm.

“Stay where you are!” ordered the youth, determinedly.

“Let go of me, boy!” cried Bidwell, angrily.

“Not much! Police, police!”

The stout man arose slowly to his feet, and stared at Bob.

“What does this mean, young man?” he questioned.

“This man is a thief, and is trying to get away.”

“It’s not so,” put in Bidwell. “A man is dying, and I am running for a doctor.”

“He’s a thief I say,” went on Bob. “Will you call a policeman?”

“I will,” returned the stout individual. He was angry at Bidwell for the rough treatment he had received.

A policeman was not far away, and the man hurried off to get his assistance.

Bidwell tried to wrench himself loose. But Bob’s grip was a good one, and he held on like grim death.

“What’s the row here?” demanded the policeman, as he hurried up, followed by the stout man.

“I want this boy arrested,” said Bidwell, hurriedly. “He has just escaped from the asylum.”

“Crazy, eh?”

“As crazy as a bedbug. He’s been following me around for over an hour.”

“That’s not so,” put in Bob. “This man is a sneak-thief, and----”

“He’s crazy on the subject of thieves,” said Bidwell. “He was once scared by a midnight burglar, and it affected his brain. He belongs up at the Cloverdale Asylum.”

“Well, what were you running for?” asked the stout man, suspiciously.

“A man was hurt. I was running to get a doctor.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Albert E. Whistler, the hardware manufacturer of Troy. I came to Stampton this morning on business.”

“He tells it good,” said Bob. “Shall I tell you who he really is?”

“Don’t believe him, he is crazy.”

“His right name is Bidwell, and he is known as Slippery Paul, the crook.”

At this declaration the policeman opened his eyes.

“You are sure about that?”

“Positive. If you don’t believe me, take us both to the station-house.”

“That’s fair,” said the stout individual. “I’ll pick up my basket and set it in one of these stores and go along. I’m anxious to see the matter out.”

This arrangement did not suit Bidwell, but he put on a pleasant face.

“All right, I’ll go along,” he said. “But keep a sharp lookout on that boy.”

“And I’ll ask you to handcuff him,” said Bob. “He may try to slip away.”

At this Bidwell muttered something under his breath. He looked as if he wanted to kill Bob, and the policeman saw that the shot had told.

“You’ll bear watching, I’m thinking,” he said. “So I’ll--hullo!”

Once more Bidwell had taken to his heels. But the officer was a fine runner, and he soon overtook the sneak-thief.

“That settles it. Hold out your hands!”

“What for?”

“Never mind, hold them out!”

Bidwell did so, and he was quickly handcuffed. Then the whole party marched to police headquarters.

Bidwell was quickly recognized by the captain of the police, and his capture was considered an important one, especially when Bob related the particulars of the jewel robbery. A pawn-ticket was found in the sneak-thief’s pocket, and this afterward proved to be for money loaned on the diamond and ruby cross, which was returned to Mrs. Varley.

The stout man who had been knocked down, became quite interested in Bob, and after the hearing was ended, and Bidwell locked up, he followed the youth to the street.

“Good for you,” he said, clapping Bob on the back. “I admire your pluck. It is not every young man would have braved it out as you did.”

“I knew I was right, and had nothing to fear, sir.”

“Did you say your name was Robert Alden?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you belong in Stampton?”

“Not exactly. I came from Shellville. I am here looking for a job.”

“Oh! At any particular trade?”

“I wish, if possible, to learn the art of photography. I know a little about it, and I am anxious to learn more.”

The stout man smiled.

“Do you know me?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“My name is Edgar Starleigh, and I am a photographer.”

“Edgar Starleigh? I read the name on a sign.”

“So you would like to learn photography?”

“That is my ambition, sir.”

“Rather a difficult art, my boy.”

“And it will take quite a while to learn, too, I suppose, sir.”

“That’s true, although some learn quicker than others.”

“Even so, I would like to take it up.”

“Might give you a trial,” mused Mr. Starleigh.

“Eh? What did you say?” asked Bob, quickly.

“You might come to my studio in the morning.”

“Employment so quickly just suits me,” laughed Bob.

“Rather a lucky encounter, after all,” said the photographer, joining in the laugh.

“And what time shall I come?” asked Bob.

“Unless you have other matters to arrange, come in at six o’clock.”

“That’s rather early, isn’t it, for photographing? Not but what I’ll be on hand.”

“Hardly, when one has a lot of sunlight printing to do.”

“Oh, I see!”

“Real good printing needs good sunlight, and to get that one has to be alert the moment the sun comes up. Of course I do a good deal of printing by gaslight, too.”

The conversation then drifted around to the subject of wages, and Bob was hired at six dollars a week, to be advanced as soon as he was worth more.

On the following morning the youth presented himself at Mr. Starleigh’s studio. He found the place somewhat shabby in appearance. But the man was an excellent photographer, and his business was brisk.

Starleigh was well pleased at the manner in which Bob took hold, and predicted that if the youth continued to apply himself he would soon be able to take any kind of a picture.

During the noon hour Bob met Frank, and told him of the situation he had secured, and also of Bidwell’s capture.

“Good for you. Starleigh is said to be a first-class man, and you had better stick to him for a while. But I must bid you good-by for the present.”

“Why, what’s up?”

“I must go back to work. One of our men has been taken sick, and I’ve got to take his trip throughout the western part of the State next month.”

“Then I won’t see you for a while?”

“No; but I’ll write, and I’ll expect you to do the same.”

And so the two parted firm friends.

Several days went by and Bob stuck diligently to his work, much to Mr. Starleigh’s satisfaction. He saw nothing of Grace Maverick, and in a roundabout way learned that the young lady was away on a brief trip to the seashore.

The building in which the photographic studio was situated was a large one, containing over two dozen offices. A hall ran through the middle as far as the top floor, and there was also a rear hall on the second and third stories.

On the evening of the fourth day Bob was left to lock up alone, Mr. Starleigh having gone away on business, and the other assistant being sick. Bob remained behind a little later than usual, being anxious to finish mounting a set of landscapes, which were to be called for the next day.

It was dark when Bob finished and stepped out into the hall-way. Locking up securely, he started to go below.

Presently he heard the murmur of voices on the floor below. He looked down, and saw three men coming up the second flight of stairs.

The hall-way was too dark to distinguish faces. But as the three men turned and entered an office near the landing just below Bob, the youth recognized the voices.

The men were Casco, Barker, and Grogan.

What had brought them to the place, and at this hour in the evening?

“Perhaps they are up to one of their old tricks,” said Bob to himself. “I ought to notify the police and have them bagged without delay.”

He heard the men still talking, and, anxious to make out what was being said, he tiptoed his way to the door and listened.

“You are sure Lawrence is nowhere about?” he heard Barker say.

“Positive,” returned Casco. “He got a letter calling him to Middletown, and he left on the four-fifteen train.”

“Then we have the whole office to ourselves.”

“We have.”

“Then lock the door and come to business.”

“Yis, it’s hoigh toime we did that same,” growled Grogan. “’Tis a lot ov toime we’ve been afther wastin’.”

“Slow but sure, Mike,” laughed Casco. “You mustn’t forget that the police are on our heels.”

“I doubt if they know we are in Stampton,” put in Barker. “The old Nick take that boy! If it hadn’t been for him they wouldn’t know who stole the stuff.”

“Say, Bill, you seem to be down on him more than any of us,” came from Casco.

“So I am.”

“What’s the reason?”

“That’s my affair.”

“Oh, if you’re going to be so close-mouthed about it----” began Casco, coldly.

“That boy’s father did me an injury once, and I haven’t forgotten it,” returned Barker.

“Who was his father?”

“Never mind that. He had me jugged, and that’s enough.”

“And now the old man’s dead, you are going to take it out of the boy, eh?”

“And so would you, if you had been treated as I have been. I am not one of the forgiving or forgetting kind.”

“Sure an’ we both know that same!” laughed Grogan. “Yer a gintlemon in yer shtoyle, Barker, but yer a terror whin it comes to timper.”

“But say, Bill, didn’t you have something to do with the boy when he was younger?” went on Casco, curiously.

“Who told you I had?”

“Nobody exactly, but I fancied----”

“You fancy too much, Jim. That matter hasn’t got anything to do with the work on hand.”

Bob listened with bated breath to all that was said. He was sorry Barker had cut the others short. What might he not have learned had the man chosen to continue the conversation!

Bob was in a quandary. Should he summon the police, or should he stay and hear whatever might be said?

“If I go out, they may leave during my absence,” he said to himself. “I think I had better stay with them until somebody comes this way.”

He heard the men seat themselves around a table, and then Barker and Casco lit cigars, while Grogan got out a pipe.

“Now to come to business,” said Barker.

“That’s the talk,” said Grogan.

“Well, Rosenbaum says he will give four hundred dollars for the stuff,” began Casco.

“That’s mighty little.”

“He says all the stuff is not solid silver.”

Barker’s face fell and so did Grogan’s.

“I know it’s a disappointment,” went on Casco. “I thought the haul would pay much better myself, but still four hundred dollars is better than nothing, not to say anything of the cash.”

“Ye can’t make that Jew come up in the proice?” ventured Grogan, puffing away vigorously.

“No. He only wanted to give three-fifty first.”

“Well, we might as well let it go,” said Barker. “The sooner we get the stuff off our hands the better.”

“That’s so,” returned Casco. “It will leave us free for that other deal.”

“Thrue fer you,” added Grogan. “’Tis meself that is itchin’ to get to worruk upon that.”

“Plenty of time,” said Barker. “By the way, I wonder if there is anything in this place worth taking along?”

“Nothing like making a search,” returned Casco, coolly.

He and the others arose, and Bob heard them moving about the office. Presently he heard the slide of a roller-top desk shoved back, and then a conversation, too low for him to hear clearly, reached his ears.

“If I only knew how long they intended to remain,” thought the youth. “If I go for the police now they may leave at any instant, and then I’ll miss them sure.”

Suddenly he heard Barker utter a cry.

“Just the thing!”

“That’s so. It will help us wonderfully.”

“Phat is it?” questioned Grogan.

“Never mind, Mike; you’ll know before you are much older.”

“Yis, but----”

Bob caught no more. There was a quick step on the stairs, and the janitor of the building appeared, broom in hand, to sweep out the place.

“Hullo! what are you doing at that door?” he asked, loudly.

Bob motioned him to be silent, and then tiptoed his way to where the man stood, mouth wide open in expectation.

“There are three well-known robbers in Mr. Lawrence’s office,” whispered the youth.

“Robbers!” cried the man, louder than ever. “Just wait till I get after them!”

“Better summon the police,” urged Bob. “They are all strong men, and you cannot capture them alone.”

“We’ll see if I can’t,” cried the janitor, who was a very self-important individual. “Run for the police yourself, if you want to.”

He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the office door.

Rushing into the apartment he gazed around.

“What’s the matter with you?” he cried, turning to Bob, angrily.

“Nothing! Catch them!”

“There is nobody here.”

“What?” gasped Bob.

He brushed past the man. Sure enough, the room appeared deserted.

“They were here a moment ago,” went on the youth. “Look in the closets.”

“This is some trick of yours,” grumbled the janitor.

Nevertheless he opened the two closets which the office contained. Neither held a single human form.

During this time Bob had entered a private office located in the rear of the main one. Here there was a window opening upon a narrow alley.

The window-sash was raised, and looking out Bob saw that the opening readily connected with a fire-escape.

“That settles it; they have gotten away,” thought the youth.

“Well?” queried the janitor.

“You just missed them,” said Bob. “They got out on the fire-escape. I’m going to run them down if I can.”

“You must be mistaken,” said the janitor. “There don’t seem to be anything disturbed.”

But Bob did not hear him. He was already on his way down-stairs, three steps at a time.

Reaching the sidewalk he hurried around to the alley-way. It appeared to be deserted.

Bob looked around. On the curbstone sat a bootblack eating a banana.

“Shine, boss?”

“No. Did you see three men come out of the alley a moment ago?”

“I did.”

“Which way did they go?”

The bootblack pointed his dirty finger down the street.

“Straight down?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

Away went Bob at the top of his speed. At the first corner he paused. Had the three robbers gone straight ahead, or turned down the side street?

“I’ll take my chances that they made a turn. The question is which way, to the left or the right?” he asked himself.

Bob looked up and down the side street. He saw that to the left the street came to an end but a block off.

“They must have gone to the right,” he muttered. “I’ll try that, anyway.”

Turning to his right he dashed down the cross street.

He had gone less than five hundred feet when he saw the figure of a man emerge from behind a bill-board and scale a near-by fence.

The man was Bill Barker.