k any trouble. But he hadn't counted on that gang tippin'
off the Jersey game wardens, nor on their trailin' the baggage and
express bundles with huntin' dogs.

"The dogs had smelled it out just as I came in to claim it," says he;
"so all I could do was to keep my mouth closed, standing around and
looking foolish until I got tired and came away. And that, Torchy, is
the situation up to the present moment. My venison is under guard over
in Jersey City, and if it isn't delivered at the club by six o'clock
to-night I shall not only lose my bet, but have my life made miserable
from cheap jokes for months to come. It occurred to me that if your wits
were as bright as the hair that covers them, you might be able to help
me out. What do you think?"

"Chee!" says I, scratchin' me bonfire, "I guess I'm down the coal chute.
I've rescued locked-in typewriter girls from fire escapes, and lied the
boss out of a family row; but I never tried my hand at kidnappin' enough
meat for a dinner party. How about buyin' off the game sleuth?"

"He has been bought by the other side," says Mr. Robert. "He wouldn't
dare to sell them out."

Well, I thunk some more thinks just as punky as that, and then we
settles it that I'm to hike over and take a squint, anyway. I gets him
to give me a line on what kind of a looker the warden was, and he throws
me a couple of tens for campaign expenses. I was just stowin' away the
green stuff as I goes through the outside office, and Piddie's eyebrows
go up.

"They're goin' to let me finish out the week," says I. "Ain't they the
gentle things?"

Then I skips out for the 23d-st. boat, leavin' Piddie with his mouth
open, and Mr. Robert wrapped up with the idea that, some way or other,
I'm goin' to talk that game cop into a dope dream and rescue the roast.

But, say, I didn't need to look twice at that snoozer to see that no
line of hot air I had in stock would soften him up. He had an undershot
jaw, a pair of eyes that saw both sides of the street at once, and a
head like a choppin' block. He was sittin' right alongside of that
burlap bundle, waitin' to spring his tin badge on some one.

"Do they send such things as that through without cratin'?" says I to a
guy behind the chicken wire, jerkin' me thumb at Mr. Sleuth. "What's the
label on him?"

"That's Mr. Hinkey Tolliver, special officer," says he. "Better look
out or he'll break a hand grenade on that still alarm of yours."

"Ah, back to the blotter