"Come in back here," said Mr. Blicker roughly. "I fix him." But once out
of sight in the depths of the store, his manner changed, and he patted
Bubbles enthusiastically on the back. "You have found out some things?"
"Sure--lots."
The chemist, without commenting, began to treat the cut thumb, washing,
disinfecting, and bandaging. Then, very loud, for the benefit perhaps of
the lovers at the soda-counter, "So," he said, "I let you out the
back door."
And he actually opened a door, slammed it shut, and turned a key in the
lock. But it was a closet door. Then with a finger on his lips he
pointed to a narrow staircase and, his own feet making a great tramping,
led the way up it. Upon the top steps they found Mr. Lichtenstein,
nervously puffing clouds of tobacco smoke,
"'Bout given you up," he said. "Good boy!"
"Better talk by the parlor," said Blicker; "here is too exposed."
When the door of the stuffy little parlor had closed behind them, the
proprietor began to smile and beam. But Mr. Lichtenstein looked grave
and troubled. It was not for pleasure that he sometimes found occasion
to put dangerous work in the hands of children.
"Hurt your thumb bad?" he asked.
Bubbles shook his head and plunged into his story. Now and then the
German laughed, but the red-haired, pug-nosed Jew appeared to sink
deeper and deeper into his own thoughts, only showing by an occasional
question that he was following the boy's narrative. Bubbles wished to
dwell at length and with comment upon the use of the passage for
disposing of dead bodies, but to Mr. Lichtenstein this appeared to be
merely a natural by-product of its construction.
"It wasn't dug for that," he said. "How big is the main excavation?"
[Illustration: "I want me thumb bandaged"]
"'Bout as big as a small East Side dance-hall."