"What air you doin' here?"
"Skating. My name is Wicker Bonner, and I'm visiting my uncle,
Congressman Bonner, across the river. You know him, I dare say. I've
been hanging around here for a week's hunting, and haven't had an ounce
of luck in all that time. It's rotten! Aha, I see that you are an
officer, sir--a detective, too. By George, can it be possible that you
are searching for some one? If you are, let me in on it. I'm dying for
excitement."
The young man's face was eager and his voice rang true. Besides, he was
a tall, athletic chap, with brawny arms and a broad back. Altogether, he
would make a splendid recruit, thought Anderson Crow. He was dressed in
rough corduroy knickerbockers, the thick coat buttoned up close to his
muffled neck. A woollen cap came down over his ears and a pair of skates
dangled from his arm.
"Yes, sir; I'm a detective, and we are up here doin' a little
investigatin'. You are from Chicago, I see."
"What makes you think so?"
"Can't fool me. I c'n always tell. You said, 'I've _bean_ hangin','
instead of 'I've _ben_ hangin'.' See? They say _bean_ in Chicago. Ha!
ha! You didn't think I could deduce that, did you?"
"I'll confess that I didn't," said Mr. Bonner with a dry smile. "I'm
from Boston, however."
"Sure," interposed Isaac Porter; "that's where the beans come from,
Anderson.
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