No, sir.
Clay ain't in no morgue. Like as not he's helped fill this yere morgue
if any crooks tried their rough stuff on him. Don't get me wrong, Cap.
Clay is the squarest he-man ever God made. All I'm sayin' is--"
The captain interrupted. He asked sharp, incisive questions and got
busy. Presently he reached for a 'phone, got in touch with a sergeant
at the police desk in the upper corridor, and sent an attendant with
Johnnie to the Police Department.
The Irish sympathies of the sergeant were aroused by the naive honesty
of the little man. He sent for another sergeant, had card records
brought, consulted a couple of patrolmen, and then turned to Johnnie.
"We've met your friend all right," he said with a grin. "He's wan
heluva lad. Fits the description to a T. There can't be but one like
him here." And he went on to tell the story of the adventure of the
janitor and the hose and that of its sequel, the resale of the
fifty-five-dollar suit to I. Bernstein, who had reported his troubles
to the police.
The washed-out eyes of the puncher lit up. "That's him. That's sure
him. If the' was two of him they'd ce'tainly be a hell-poppin' team.
Clay he's the best-natured fellow you ever did see, but there can't
nobody run a whizzer on him, y' betcha. Tell me where he's at?"
"We don't know. We can show you the place where he tied the janitor,
but that's the best we can do." The captain hesitated. "If you find
him, give him a straight tip from me.
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