TWO BLACK BEARS IN TROUBLE.
Left alone in his room by the departure of Nestor, Fremont busied
himself for a time with the newspapers which his friend had brought in.
On the first page of the evening newspaper he found the source of
Nestor's information concerning the movements of the police.
The story, under a New York date line, was highly colored, the reporter
taking advantage of every strange happening to bring in paragraphs of
what he doubtless termed "local color." From first to last, every clue
was bent and twisted so as to point to the guilt of the boy. It seemed
that some cunning enemy was directing the reporters.
It was stated that Fremont had been seen in the building earlier in the
evening, and that the night watchman had "reluctantly" admitted that he
had heard high words passing between Mr. Cameron and his employe. The
interview with the watchman had taken place on the very night of the
crime. Since that time, the newspaper said, no one had seen him in New
York, at least no one who would admit knowledge of his movements to the
police.
On the whole, the newspaper made out a pretty good case against the
boy, and Fremont was pleased to think that he had taken the advice of
his friend and left the city. If he had not done so, he would now be in
the Tombs, he had no doubt.
After a time he tossed the paper aside and began walking up and down
his room, anxious for Nestor's return, anxious for a breath of mountain
air--for the freedom of the high places, for the sniff of a camp-fire.
It was then that he heard a footstep at his door.
He turned the lights down and waited, his hand on a weapon which had
been given him by Nestor. Then the door was opened softly and an arm
clad in khaki was thrust through the narrow opening. Fremont waited,
but no face followed the arm into view. Then, approaching nearer, he
saw something on the sleeve which sent the hopeful blood surging
through his veins. It was the badge of the Black Bear Patrol, and
beneath it was the Indian arrow-head badge of the Boy Scouts. With a
shout he caught at the door and threw it open. There, with a
delightful smile on his broad face, stood Frank Shaw.
Fremont seized his chum about the neck and dragged him into the room,
where the hugging and pulling about rivaled the efforts of real black
bears. Then Fremont closed and locked the door and dropped into a
chair, eyeing his friend as if he would like to devour him, black bear
fashion.
"You didn't expect to see me here, did you?" asked Frank.
"I should say not. How did you know where to find me? When did you
leave New York? How is Mr. Cameron? Tell me all about everything."
"When you get done asking questions," cried Frank. "First, Ned Nestor
told me where to look for you. He told some of the others, too, but I
reckon they got lost on the way down. I've been waiting for you half a
year--it seems to me--a whole day, any way. And that reminds me that
you've got to beat it."
"And how is Mr. Cameron? Is he conscious yet?"
"Not yet, and they say he can't live. Say, I came down here to enlist
as drummer, so I could get a stand-in with the army fellows, and, what
do you think, they wouldn't enlist me! Said I was too short and fat.
Me short and fat! I'm going to write up that recruiting officer and
have Dad publish him to the world."
"There is a lot of talk about the case?" asked Fremont.
"Of course there is," was the reply. "But what do you think about that
recruiting officer? He ought to be pinched. Me too short and fat!
Ever hear me drum?"
"Only once," was the reply. "Then the boys held me while you drummed."
"Never you mind that," Frank replied. "I'm going to tell you now that
you've got to beat it. Understand? You've got to get out right
away--not to-morrow, but now."
"Yes, I know the police are after me," said Fremont, gravely. "There
is some one who is keeping them posted as to our movements. It appears
to me that this crime was directed against me as well as against Mr.
Cameron. What are you going to do now?"
"Do?" demanded the other. "Do? I'm going to stay here and fight for
you. What else could I do? And I'm going to write to father and tell
him all about the case, and say you are innocent, and he'll show the
other newspapers where to head in at."
"We've got to get the proof first," said Fremont. "The case looks dark
for me," Fremont added with a sigh. "Nestor will soon be here, and
he'll be glad to see you."
"I hope he'll come before the police, do," said Frank. "I'll tell you,
old man, that they're hot after that reward. They know you're in this
hotel. I don't doubt that they know the room you're in. You've got to
beat it, I tell you."
"I've got to wait for Ned Nestor," said Fremont.
"Say," said Shaw, "do you know who it is that brought you here?"
"Ned Nestor, of course."
"But do you know who he is? He's the best amateur detective in the
world. He's always looking for a chance to help those accused of
crime. Even the high police officers of New York ask him to look into
cases for them. Some day he'll be at the head of the United States
secret service department. You see. He'll get you through if any one
can. Leave it to him. Here's some one coming now. Perhaps it is Ned."
But it was not Ned, for there were noises in the hall, just beyond the
door, which indicated a struggle, and then a sharp voice called out:
"Cut it out, youse feller! Cut it out, or I'll bring out me educated
left. Let me alone, I say. I ain't no tramp."
Both boys recognized the voice, and Fremont hastened to unlock the
door. When it was opened the second surprise of the evening confronted
the fugitive. Jimmie McGraw stood in the hall threatening an angry
waiter with his clenched fists. Although the boy was small, and no
match for the waiter, he was exceedingly nimble, and the waiter was
unable to lay hands on him.
"He's tryin' to throw me out," exclaimed Jimmie, grinning at sight of
the boys. "Tell him it is all right."
"We are expecting the boy," Fremont said. "Kindly let him alone."
"I'm ordered to throw him out of the hotel," roared the waiter. "He's a
tramp."
Fremont pacified the fellow with a silver offering and, drawing Jimmie
inside of the room, closed the door. Then the three boys, looking
from one to the other, broke out in uproarious laughter. For Jimmie was
a sight to behold. His clothing was torn, and his hands and face looked
as if they had never seen water.
"How did you get down here?" asked Fremont, after a moment. "I left
you in New York, to look after that end of the Cameron case."
"Huh!" exclaimed the boy. "You didn't take the railroad iron up with
you when you came down, did you? Nor yet you didn't lock up the
side-door Pullmans. I got fired as second assistant to the private
secretary to the scrubwoman, 'cause she got pinched, so I came on down
here to help Uncle Sam keep the border quiet."
"They won't let you drum," interrupted Fatty. "You're too short."
"I don't want to drum," was the indignant reply. "I want to get over
into Mexico an' live in the mountains. Say, if you boys have any
mazuma, just pass it out. I'm hungry enough to eat the Statue of
Liberty in the harbor."
"I'm hungry, too," said Frank Shaw.
"I knew it," observed Jimmie. "Come on. Let's go out and eat."
"Wait," said Frank, "there's something doing here. Fremont's got to
get out of this room right away and I'll go with him. There is a
window we can climb out of. When we get out I'll plant Fremont
somewhere and circle back here with some provisions for you.
Understand?"
"Me for the hike out of the window, too," said Jimmie. "I see myself
waitin' here for you to come back with grub after you get your share.
You'll come back--not."
"Sure I'll come back," replied Frank. "Besides, some one's got to stay
here. You for the bed, Jimmie," he added, with a sudden smile on his
face, brought out, doubtless, by the arrival of a brilliant idea, "you
for the bed, and if the cops come here you're the boy that has the
room--see? And there ain't no other boy that you know of. That will
keep them guessing. They'll think they've been following the wrong
kid, and we'll all get across the Rio Grande before they wake up. You
for the bed, Jimmie."
But Jimmie held back, saying that he did not feel in need of a bed, but
did feel in need of a square meal. But the boys, laughing at the wry
faces and savage speeches he made, helped him off with his clothes,
turned out the lights, and dropped out of the window into an alley
which ran, one story below, at the rear of the hotel.
They were none too soon in concluding their arrangements, for as they
lit on the ground below a heavy knock came on the door of the room they
had just left. As they slipped off in the darkness they heard Jimmie
doing a pretty good imitation of a snore.
"Say," Fremont said, as they drew up on a street corner after a short
run, "they'll arrest Jimmie. If the cops ask the waiters, they'll soon
know that there were others in that room, and they'll arrest him for
obstructing an officer. I wish we had brought him with us. Poor
Jimmie!"
"He'll get out of it in some way," laughed Frank. "They won't hold him
long if they do pinch him. Anyway, we want him around there to meet
Nestor when he comes back. He'll tell some cock-and-bull story that
will put him to the good with the cops."
But Fremont was not so sure of the resourcefulness of Jimmie, and
worried over the matter not a little as they walked the streets,
quieting down now, for the soldiers had been called back to camp and
the citizens of the town were seeking their homes and beds. As for
Frank, he was talking most of the time of the supper he was hoping to
get before long. The boys did not care to enter a conspicuous
restaurant, and so they chose an obscure eating house on a side street.
At first glance the place seemed without customers as they entered, and
the boys were glad to have the room to themselves, but as soon as they
were seated two men came in and took seats at a table not far away from
their own. The men were dusky fellows, with long hair and sharp black
eyes. They ordered sparingly, as if they cared little for food, and,
after glancing furtively around the room, spent their time in whispered
conversation.
Fremont thought he saw something familiar in one of the men, and kept
his eyes on his face until the coarse features, the sullen grin, became
associated in his mind with the Cameron building in New York. It did
not seem possible that this could be true, yet there was a face he had
seen in the corridors of the great building, and every moment the
identification was becoming more definite.
"Ever see that man before?" he asked of Frank, nudging the boy and
pointing with his fork, held so low down that it could not be seen by
the others.
"I'm sure I have," was the reply. "He was at the hotel when I went
upstairs to your room," Frank went on. "I remember now."
Before anything more could be said the two men arose and approached the
table where the boys sat. Railing at the adverse fate which had
brought him in contact with this man after a successful flight from the
New York police, Fremont arose and darted toward the door. He gained
the doorway before the other could seize him, and there turned to look
back.
Shaw had not been so fortunate in escaping the grasp of the Mexican,
for such he appeared to be. When Fremont looked back the fellow was
trying his best to throw the boy to the floor, while his companion
stood by with clenched fists. The boy was about to turn back to the
assistance of him chum when he saw with joy that this would not be
necessary.