"And what am I to do in return for these favours?" Johnson demanded.
"Let us hear from you," said my brother.
"You shall," he replied.
Within half an hour Johnson had vanished in a buckboard and a cloud of
fine white dust.
Upon the following afternoon I made an alarming discovery. Our
burglar-proof safe had been opened, and the roll of notes was missing.
I sought Ajax and told him. He allowed one word only to escape his
lips--
"Johnson!"
"What tenderfeet we are!" I groaned.
"Lineal descendants of the Good Samaritan. Well, he has had a long
start, but we must catch him."
"If it should not be--Johnson?"
"Conan would have nailed anybody else."
This was unanswerable, for Conan guarded our safe whenever there was
anything in it worth guarding. Ajax never is so happy as when he can
prove himself a prophet.
"I said he was an artist," he remarked. "The truth is, we tried an
experiment upon the wrong man."
A few minutes later we took the road. We had not gone very far,
however, before we met the neighbour who had driven Johnson to town.
He pulled up and greeted us.
"Boys," said he.
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