right, ain't it? I tell you, Tom, 'tain't
every feller that can do the teachin' act."

"Nuther can every fellow do the detective business. Ef you want to know
what I think, Bob Hunter, I'll tell you."

"All right, Tom, sail in."

"Well, I think, ef I was you, I'd jest let this learnin' business go,
and I'd make myself a detective. No feller could put more style into it
than what you could, Bob."

"Tom, you're way off again. A feller can't make no kind of a detective,
nor nothin' else, neither, unless he knows somethin'. I guess I know,
and Herbert says so too."

"Well, I hain't got no learnin'," replied Tom, somewhat pompously, as if
to prove by himself that Bob's statement was untrue.

"I know it," said Bob, and stopped short.

Tom looked at him doubtfully.

"Then you might's well say right out that I won't make nothin', Bob
Hunter," said he, his manner resembling that of one not a little
indignant.

"Well, I said what I said, Tom, and if it fits you, why then am I to
blame?"

Tom made no reply.

"It's no use for you to get mad, Tom. Anybody would tell you jest the
same as what I did. Now, the thing for you to do, Tom, is ter get some
learnin'--you can do it."

"Do you think I could, Bob?" replied Tom, coming round to Bob's views,
as he almost always did.

"Why, of course you could, Tom; ain't I doin' it?"

"Well, yes, I s'pose you are, Bob, but then you can do 'most anything."

"That ain't so, Tom. You can do it jest as well as what I can, ef you
only try."

"I never thought about that before, Bob," said Tom, thoughtfully. "Who
could I get to learn me?"

"You mustn't say 'learn you,' Tom. Herbert says that hain't right."

"What is it, then, Bob?"

"He says I must say 'teach me,' because I've got to do the learning
myself."

"Well, that's too much for me, Bob; I want to start in on somethin'
easier."

At length this discussion ended by Tom falling in with Bob's opinion as
usual, and by his agreeing to commence at once attending an evening
school.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A VISIT TO THE BANKER'S HOUSE.

The disturbing elements that had produced the somewhat dramatic and
extraordinary scenes of the last week were now apparently quiet. But
were they actually so? This is the question that Herbert Randolph and
Bob Hunter asked themselves--a question that caused them much anxiety.

Felix Mortimer, to be sure, was in the Tombs awaiting his trial. But the
granite wall and the great iron doors