ackling little laugh.

"What's so funny?" Roger asked.

"Fellers," was the answer. "Fellers. Human nature. Here's a letter from
Shifty Sam."

"Who the devil is he? A friend of yours?"

"No," said John, "he's a 'con man.' He works about as mean a graft as any
you ever heard of. He reads the 'ads' in the papers--see?--of servant girls
who're looking for work. He makes a specialty of cooks. Then he goes to
where they live and talks of some nice family that wants a servant right
away. He claims to be the butler, and he's dressed to look the part. 'There
ain't a minute to lose,' he says. 'If you want a chawnce, my girl, come
quick.' He says 'chawnce' like a butler--see? 'Pack your things,' he tells
her, 'and come right along with me.' So she packs and hustles off with
him--Sam carrying her suit case. He puts her on a trolley and says, 'I
guess I'll stay on the platform. I've got a bit of a headache and the air
will do me good.' So he stays out there with her suit case--and as soon as
the car gets into a crowd, Sam jumps and beats it with her clothes."

"I see," said Roger dryly. "But what's he writing _you_ about?"

"Oh, it ain't me he's writing to--it's you," was John's serene reply. Roger
started.

"What?" he asked.

"Well," said the boy in a cautious tone, vigilantly eyeing his chief, "you
see, a lot of these fellers like Sam have been in the papers lately.
They're being called a crime wave."

"Well?"

"Sam is up for trial this week--and half the Irish cooks in town are
waiting 'round to testify. And Shifty seems to enjoy himself. His
picture's in the papers--see? And he wants all the clippings. So he
encloses a five dollar bill."

"He does, eh--well, you write to Sam and send his money back to him!" There
was a little silence.

"But look here," said John with keen regret. "We've had quite a lot of
these letters this week."

Roger wheeled and looked at him.

"John," he demanded severely, "what game have you been up to here?"

"No game at all," was the prompt retort. "Just getting a little business."

"How?"

"Well, there's a club downtown," said John, "where a lot of these petty
crooks hang out. I used to deliver papers there. And I went around one
night this month--"

"_To drum up business?_"

"Yes, sir." Roger looked at him aghast.

"John," he asked, in deep reproach, "do you expect this office to feed the
vanity of thieves?"

"Where's the vanity," John rejoined, "in being called a crime wave