"Well then" said Fremont, extending his hand, which the other hastened to take, "you've got to help me now. You've got to stand by me. It is your duty.""If you belong to the Black Bear Patrol," began the boy, "and have all the fine things you want--as the members of that patrol do--what did you want to go an' do this thing for? What's your name?""George Fremont. What is yours?"
"Jimmie McGraw," was the reply. "I'm second assistant to the private secretary to the woman who scrubs here nights. She'll be docking me if I don't get busy," he added, with a mischievous twinkle in his keen gray eyes. "Or, worse, she'll be comin'
in here an' findin' out what's goin' on."
"Why didn't one of you come in here before I got to the top of the stairs?" asked Fremont, illogically. "Why did you just happen in here in time to accuse me of doing this thing?""I was just beginnin' on this floor," the boy replied. "I wish now that I hadn't come in here at all. You know what I've got to do?""You mean call the police?" asked Fremont.
"That's what I've got to do."
"I didn't do it. I wasn't here when it was done," exclaimed Fremont.
"You've got to listen to me. You've got to listen to me, and believe what I say. It is your duty to do so.""What did you want to go and be a Boy Scout an' do such a thing for?"demanded the boy. "Boy Scouts don't protect robbers, or murderers.
You know I've got to go an' call the police. There ain't nothin'
else I can do."
"If you call the police now," Fremont urged, "you'll rob me of every chance to prove that I am innocent. They will lock me up in the Tombs and I'll have no show at all. Mrs. Cameron will believe that I did it, and won't come near me. If he dies I'll be sent to the electric chair--and you'll be my murderer.""What am I goin' to do, then?" demanded Jimmie. "I can't go out of the room and testify that I know nothing about it when the police do come. I can't do that for you, even if you do belong to the Black Bear Patrol. I wish I'd never come here to-night. I wish I'd never worked for the scrubwoman.""To face danger in order to help others," Fremont repeated, significantly.
"Oh, I know--I know," said Jimmie, flinging his arms out in a gesture of despair. "I've heard that before, but what am I to do?""Who's your patrol leader?" asked Fremont. "Go and ask him, or the scoutmaster. One of them ought to be able to tell you what you ought to do.""And you'll take to your legs while I'm gone " replied Jimmie, with a grin. "Good idea that. For you.""Here," said Fremont, tossing out his key to the door, "go on away and lock me in. I couldn't get away if I wanted to, and I give you my honor that I won't try. Go and find some one you can talk this thing over with."Jimmie's eyes brightened with sudden recollection of his patrol leader's love for mysterious cases--his great liking for detective work.
"Say," he said, presently, "I'll go an' bring Ned Nestor. He's my patrol leader, and the bulliest boy in New York. He'll know what to do. I'll bet he'll come here when he knows what the trouble is.
And I'll do just as he says."
Jimmie turned toward the door, fingering the key, his eyes blinking rapidly, then he turned and faced Fremont.
"If Ned Nestor tells me it ain't no use," he said, slowly, reluctantly, "I'll have to bring the police. I'll have to do it anyway, if he tells me to.""You'll find me here, whoever you bring," Fremont replied. "I won't run away. What would be the use of that? They'd find me and bring me back.
Go on out and bring in anyone you want to. I guess I'll never make the trip to the Rio Grande we were planning to-night--just before I came here.""The Black Bears?" asked Jimmie. "Were they planning a trip to the Rio Grande?"Fremont nodded and pointed toward the door.
