“Well, Mul, I don’t forget this turn if the game does run my way. I’ll see that you get a chance to go against Tommy the Terror, just as I promised, if I rake in the chips to-night. I don’t suppose there is any danger that the police will interfere?” “Well, dere was danger, but I rudder t’ink der cops has been put off der scent. Dey dunno jest when der little bout’s goin’ ter come off.” “But they must have seen the sports coming into town to-day. Lots of them have struck St. Jo. within the last ten hours.” “I should guess yes! It’ll be a good t’ing fer der club.” “I don’t believe there is any other city in the United States where this sort of game could be played to a finish. It’s to be a regular prize fight under pretension of having a private sparring exhibition.” “Dat’s wot.” “But the way the sports have come into town should be enough to tell the police that something more than usual is to take place.” “Aw! der perlice here are dead slow! Den dey don’t care much, anyway. Was dere menny sports come on der train wid you, Rafferty?” “Several. One young fellow had got onto the fight somehow, and he was dead crazy to see it, but didn’t know how to get there. I think he had a roll to blow, too.” “Well, why didn’t yer give him der tip if yer t’ought he was on der level?” “I did. I sent him to Mike Kelley and told him Kelley would get him in.” Frank had decided that the fellow with the bulldog face was a slugger and prize fighter, while his companion, the owner of the squirming fingers, was a gambler. The language of the men had revealed this plainly enough. “Did yer give der young duck der word?” “Yes. I told him to say ‘upper cut’ to Kelley and shove out his fiver.” “That was all right. Who was yer friend?” “I didn’t get his name. He was carrying a heavy grip, with a long slip of paper pasted on the side of it. On the paper were printed the words ‘True Blue,’ but I don’t know what that meant.” It was impossible for Frank Merriwell to repress a start. He came near leaping to his feet with an exclamation of satisfaction, but quickly closed his mouth and dropped back into his seat. “On the track at last!” he mentally exulted. “That young fellow who seemed to have a roll to blow and who was so eager to see the prize fight was Bart Hodge!” Frank Merriwell was on the alert now, his ears open to catch every word of the conversation to which up to that point he had listened with the idlest sort of interest. Frank wondered why he had not thought of tracing Bart by means of the strip pasted on Hodge’s grip. In a moment, however, it seemed natural enough that he had not thought of such a thing, for it had not seemed probable a fellow who had just stolen over eight hundred dollars would travel around with a conspicuous label by which he might be spotted and recognized. It was rather remarkable that Hodge had not removed the words in some manner from his traveling bag.