BOB HUNTER THOROUGHLY AROUSED.
When Bob Hunter returned from the evening school to his room, he
expected to find young Randolph there.
"He promised to be here," said Bob to himself; "I hope nothing has
happened to him."
The newsboy's manner showed some alarm. He felt anxious about his
friend.
"Something has gone wrong, I believe, or he would surely come,"
continued Bob, after waiting for a full half hour; "but I can't imagine
what has steered him on to the wrong track."
Another half hour went by, and Herbert did not put in an appearance.
"I might's well stay here, I s'pose, as to go 'n' prowl round this town
huntin' for Vermont," said Bob, thoughtfully. "But I guess I'll see if I
can strike his trail. Any way I'll feel better, 'cause I'll know I've
done something. It's no use to let a feller like him be run into these
dens, if the game can be stopped."
An hour's fruitless hunt, in and about the Bowery, failed to reveal
Herbert's whereabouts to the anxious searcher. He was unable to find any
one who remembered to have seen him.
After giving up all hope of learning what he wished to find out, Bob
hurried back to his room, with a feeling of anxiety quite new to him. He
had taken a great liking to our hero, and now felt thoroughly alarmed,
fearing that foul play had been brought to bear upon him.
The next morning he was up bright and early, looking sharply after his
paper business, but he was not the Bob Hunter of the past. From the
drollest and funniest boy in the trade he had suddenly become the most
serious and thoughtful.
"What's hit you this mornin', Bob?" said Tom Flannery, a companion
newsboy.
"Why do you ask that?" returned Bob.
"Why, you look like you'd had a fit o' sickness."
"You're 'bout right, for I don't feel much like myself, no how. I didn't
get no sleep hardly at all, and I've worried myself thin--just see
here," and he pulled the waistband of his trousers out till there was
nearly enough unoccupied space in the body of them to put in another boy
of his size.
He couldn't resist the opportunity for a joke, this comical lad, not
even now. The trousers had been given to him by one of his customers, a
man of good size. Bob had simply shortened up the legs, so naturally
there was quite a quantity of superfluous cloth about his slim body.
"Gewhittaker!" exclaimed Tom, "I should think you have fell off! But
say, Bob, what's gone bad? What's done it?" continued Tom, disposed to
be serious.
"Well, you know the boy I told you about, what's chummin' with me?"
"Yes, the one I saw you with last night, I s'pose?"
"Yes, the same one. Well, he is lost."
"Lost!" repeated Tom, incredulously.
[Illustration: BOB HUNTER, ALONE IN HIS ROOM, WONDERS WHAT HAS BECOME OF
HIS NEW FRIEND.]
"Yes;" and Bob acquainted him with the facts of Herbert's disappearance.
"Now, what do you think of it?" he asked.
"Looks bad," said young Flannery, gravely.
"So it does to me."
"Foul play," suggested Tom.
"That's what I think."
"Perhaps he has got tired of New York and has lit out."
"No, not much. Vermont ain't no such boy."
"Well, you know him best. Did he have any grip or anything?"
"Yes, he had a good suit and lots of other truck."
"And they're in the room now?"
"Yes."
"You're in luck, Bob. I'd like a chum as would slope and leave me a good
suit."
"Well, I wouldn't. No more would you, Tom Flannery," said Bob, slightly
indignant.
"I didn't mean nothin'," said Tom, apologizing for the offense which he
saw he had given. "Of course, I wouldn't want nobody to slope and leave
his truck with me."
"That's all right then, Tom," said Bob, forgivingly. "But now, what do
you s'pose has become of him?"
"Well, it looks like he didn't go of his own free will, when he left
everything behind him."
"Of course it does, and I know he didn't."
Bob related the story of Herbert's experience at the bank, on the
morning when he secured the position.
"I don't like that duffer--what d'ye call him?"
"Felix Mortimer," repeated Bob. "I'm sure that's the name Herbert give
me."
"Well, I'll bet that he's put up the job."
"I think so myself. You see he knew Randolph wasn't no city chap."
"That's so, and he knew he'd have the drop on him. But I don't just see,
after all, how he could get away with him."
"Well, he might have run him into some den or other."
"And drugged him?"
"Well, perhaps so. There are piles of ways them fellers have of doin'
such jobs."
"I know they're kinder slick about it sometimes. But, say, Bob,"
continued Tom, earnestly, "what do you propose to do about it? He may be
a prisoner."
"So he may, and probably is, if he is alive."
"Why, Bob, they wouldn't kill him, would they?"
"No, I don't suppose so, not if they didn't have to."
"Why would they have to do that?" asked Tom, with his eyes bulging out
with excitement.
"Well, sometimes folks has to do so--them hard tickets will do 'most
anything. You see, if they start in to make way with a feller, and they
are 'fraid he'll blow on 'em, and they can't make no other arrangement,
why then they just fix him so he won't never blow on nobody."
"Bob, it's awful, ain't it?" said Tom, with a shudder.
"Yes, it is. There are a pile of tough gangs in this city that don't
care what they do to a feller."
"What do you s'pose they've done with your chum?" asked young Flannery,
returning to the subject.
"Well, that's just what I want to know," said Bob, seriously. "I am
going to try to find out, too. There are tough dens in them cross
streets running out of the Bowery."
"They won't do worse nor keep him a prisoner, will they, Bob?"
"Probably they won't, not 'less they think he will blow on 'em. You see
they've got to look out for themselves."
"That's so, Bob, but why couldn't they send him off somewhere so he
couldn't blow on 'em?"
"They might do that, too."
"But they would get him so far away he couldn't get back to New York
never, I suppose?"
"Yes, that's the idea. They might run him off to sea, and put him on an
island, or somethin' like that. I can't say just what they might do if
they have their own way. But the idea is this, Tom Flannery, _we must
stop 'em_," said Bob, emphatically, "you and me. We've got to find out
where he is, and rescue him."
"That's the boss idea, Bob," replied Tom, with emphasis. "But I don't
see just how we're goin' to do it, do you?"
"Well, no, I can't see the whole game, not now. But we must commence,
and when we get a few points, we can slide ahead faster."
"I wouldn't know how to commence."
"Well, I do; I thought that all out last night, and I'm only waiting
till ten o'clock. Then I'll steer for the bank where Herbert worked."
"Bob, you beat all the boys I know of," said Tom, eying him with
admiration. "None of 'em would ever think of doin' the things you do,
and they couldn't do 'em if they did, that's all. And now you're goin'
to do the detective act!"
Tom stopped short here with a jerk, as if he had got to the end of his
rope, and took a long breath. To "do the detective act" seemed to him
the greatest possible triumph for a boy like himself. He looked upon his
companion, therefore, with wonder and admiration.
Bob's plans for penetrating the mystery had, indeed, been carefully
formed. He fearlessly undertook an enterprise from which most boys
would have shrunk. This keen, bright street lad, however, was not of the
shrinking kind. He did not turn away from encountering dangers, even the
dangers of some dreadful den in which he feared our hero was now a
prisoner.
[Illustration: TOM FLANNERY.]
During the forenoon he visited the banking house of Richard Goldwin and
there found Felix Mortimer already installed in Herbert's place. This
discovery confirmed his worst fears and intensified his alarm for the
safety of his friend.