kind
of tired.

"Why, Rossy!" says I. "I didn't think you was the sort that called for
P. D. reports."

"I'm not," says he. "That's just father's way, you know, when he
suspects anything is going on that he hasn't been told about. He runs
his business that way--has a big force looking into things all the
time. And maybe some of them weren't busy; so he told them to look
after me."

Well say! I've heard some tough things about the old man, but I never
thought he'd carry a thing that far. Why, there ain't any more
sportin' blood in Rossiter than you'd look for in a ribbon clerk.
Outside of the little ladylike boxin' that he does with me, as a liver
regulator, the most excitin' fad of his I ever heard of was collectin'
picture postals.

Now, I generally fights shy of mixin' up in family affairs, but someway
or other I just ached to take a hand in this. "Rossy," says I, "you're
dead anxious to hand the lemon to them two sleut's; are you?"

He said he was.

"And your game's all on the straight after that, is it?" I says.

"'Pon my honour, it is," says he.

"Then count me in," says I. "I ain't never had any love for them sneak
detectives, and here's where I gives 'em a whirl."

But say, they're a slippery bunch. They must have known just where we
was headin', for by the time we lands on the sidewalk in front of the
physical culture parlours, the man in the leadin' cab has jumped out
and faded.

"He will be watching on the floor above," says Rossiter, "and the other
one will stay below."

"That's the way they work it, eh?" says I. "Good! Come on in without
lookin' around or lettin' 'em know you're on."

We goes up to the second floor and turns on the glim in the front
office. Then I puts on a pair of gym. shoes, opens the door easy, and
tiptoes down the stairs. He was just where I thought he'd be, coverin'
up in the shade of the vestibule.

"Caught with the goods on!" says I, reachin' out and gettin' a good
grip on his neck. "No you don't! No gun play in this!" and I gives
his wrist a crack with my knuckles that puts his shootin' arm out of
business.

"You're makin' a mistake," says he. "I'm a private detective."

"You're a third rate yegg," says I, "and you've been nipped tryin' to
pinch a rubber door mat."

"Here's my badge," says he.

"Anybody can buy things like that at a hock shop," says I. "You come
along up stairs till I see whether or no it's worth while ringin' up a
cop."