Part 11 (1/2)
”I couldn't see anything to laugh about,” said Felix, bitterly.
”That isn't very strange, either. You naturally wouldn't, under the circ.u.mstances,” laughed young Smartweed.
”Come, now, let up,” said Felix. ”Your turn may come.”
”I expect it will, if this young farmer ever gets after me.”
”But you don't expect him to get out, do you?”
”I hadn't thought much about it. My part of the programme was to get him into old Gunwagner's den, and I did it without any accident.”
Felix looked hard at his companion. He knew the last part of this sentence was a sarcastic thrust at him.
Bob grew excited, and found it difficult to restrain himself. He felt certain now that these two young villains were talking about his friend Herbert Randolph.
”No accident would have happened to me, either, if he hadn't hit me unawares,” protested young Mortimer, with a bit of sourness about his manner. ”I allow I could get away with him in a fair fight.”
”Oh, no, you couldn't, Mort; he is too much for you. I could see that in a minute, by the way he handled himself.”
Young Mortimer's face flushed. He didn't like the comparison.
”Well, he won't bother me again very soon,” said he, vindictively.
”Didn't they tumble to anything crooked at the bank?” asked Peter, after a few moments' serious thought.
”No.”
”I don't see why. The circ.u.mstances look suspicious.”
”Well, they didn't suspect the truth.”
”You're in luck, then, that is all I have to say.”
”I shall be, you mean, when we get him out of the way.”
”He seems to be pretty well out of your way now.”
”But that won't last forever. He must be got out of New York, that's all. Old Gunwagner will not keep him round very long, you may be sure of that.”
”You don't know how to s.h.i.+ne a shoe,” growled Smartweed to our young detective. ”See the blacking you have put on the upper! Wipe it off, I say; at once, too.”
Bob's blood boiled with indignation, and he was about to reply sharply, when he remembered that he was now acting the detective, and so he said:
”All right, boss; I'll fix it fer yer;” and he removed the superfluous blacking with great care. There was no longer any doubt in his mind about Herbert being a prisoner. He was satisfied that his friend was in the clutches of old Gunwagner, and he knew from the conversation that he was in danger of being lost forever to New York and to his friends.
The situation was an alarming one. Bob pictured vividly the worst possibilities of our hero's fate.
Presently, after young Smartweed had lighted a cigarette and taken a few puffs, he said, absentmindedly:
”So you are going to send him away from New York?”