“This man just slipped the pocketbook into your pocket,” answered Joe.
“I did not!” put in the swindler, hotly.
“You did.”
“Dat’s right!” piped up the newsboy who had brought the policeman. “I see him do de trick jest a minit ago!”
“This is a plot against me!” fumed the swindler.
“Dat feller is a bad egg!” went on the news- boy. “His name is Bill Butts. He’s a slick one, he is. Hits de country jays strong, he does!”
At the mention of the name, Bill Butts, the policeman became more interested than ever.
“You’ll come to the station house with me,” he said, sternly. “We can straighten out the matter there.”
“All right,” answered Bill Butts, for such was his real name.
In a few minutes more the party, including Joe, was off in the direction of the police station.
“Better keep a good eye on your money, Mr. Bean,” said our hero, as they walked along.
“I’ve got it tucked away safe in an inside pocket,” answered the old countryman.
The station house was several squares away, and while walking beside the policeman the eyes of Bill Butts were wide open, looking for some means of escape. He had “done time” twice and he did not wish to be sent up again if it could possibly be avoided.
His opportunity came in an unexpected manner. In a show window on a corner a man was exhibiting some new athletic appliances and a crowd had collected to witness the exhibition. The policeman had to force his way through.
“Hi, quit shovin’ me!” growled a burly fellow in the crowd, not knowing he was addressing a guardian of the law.
“Make way here!” ordered the policeman, sternly, and then the fellow fell back.
It gave Bill Butts the chance he wanted and as quick as a flash he dove into the crowd and out of sight.
“He is running away!” cried Joe.
“Catch him!” put in Josiah Bean.
Both went after the swindler and so did the policeman. But the crowd was too dense for them, and inside of five minutes Bill Butts had made good his escape.
“What did ye want to let him slip ye fer?” growled the old countryman, angrily.
“Don’t talk to me,” growled the policeman.
“He ought to be reported for this,” put in our hero.
“Say another word and I’ll run you both in,” said the bluecoat.
“Come away,” whispered Josiah Bean. “Anyway, it ain’t so bad. I’ve got my money.”
“I’m willing to go,” answered Joe. “But, just the same, that policeman is a pudding head,” he added, loudly.
“I’ll pudding head you!” cried the bluecoat, but made no attempt to molest Joe, whose general style he did not fancy.
Side by side Josiah Bean and our hero walked away, until the crowd was left behind and they were practically alone.
“I’m goin’ to count thet money again,” said the old countryman, and did so, to make certain that it was all there.
“We were lucky to spot the rascal, Mr. Bean.”
“I didn’t spot him–it was you. I’m much obliged to ye.”
“Oh, that’s all right.”
“Seems to me you are entitled to a reward, Joe,” went on the old farmer.
“I don’t want any reward.”
“But you’re a-goin’ to take it. How would five dollars strike you?”
“Not at all, sir. I don’t want a cent.”
“Then, maybe, ye won’t even come an’ take dinner with me,” continued the old man, in disappointed tones.
“Yes, I’ll do that, for this chase has made me tremendously hungry.”
“If ye ever come down my way, Joe, ye must stop an’ call on me.”
“I will, Mr. Bean.”
“Nuthin’ on my farm will be too good for ye, Joe. I’m goin’ to tell my wife Mirandy o’ this happenin’ an’ she’ll thank you jest as I’ve done.”
A good restaurant was found not far away and there the two procured a fine meal and took their time eating it.
“Have ye found work yet?” asked the old man.
“Not yet. I was looking for a job when I met you.”
“Well, I hope ye strike wot ye want, lad. But it’s hard to git a place in the city, some times.”