“We must find the boys afore they can spend it.” “As well to look for a needle in a haystack, deacon, as to look for a boy in New York. But come with me, and to-morrow I will see what can be done.” “Do you think you can get my money and shirt, and----” “Quite sure of it, deacon. I’ll put a couple of detectives on their tracks, who will run them to earth as a hound would a fox. I don’t like to mention such personal trifles, but it was providential for you that I came along as I did.” “I know it, I know it,” replied the deacon, who was in better spirits now that he felt there was a prospect of getting back his money. “To think them boys should have played such a trick.” “Learned their trade young, deacon. But come with me to-night. Nothing can be gained by following, or rather trying to follow, those slippery young thieves. The police will know where to look for them.” Keeping up a continual flow of words, he who called himself Harry Sawyer led the way along street after street, each one as they advanced seeming to grow more narrow and crooked. Bewildered as he was, Deacon Cornhill finally became aware of this. There was an unfavorable aspect about everything he saw, and he began to feel there was something wrong. “Hold on, mister, I have forgot your name, but are you sure you are on the right road? This looks pesky crooked, and----” In the midst of his speech he saw another man come swiftly out of a dark alley on the left, and caught sight of an object coming swiftly toward him. Then the missile struck him on the side of the head, and he fell to the pavement with a low moan of pain. “Well done, Bill,” declared Sawyer. “Now, I will pull the old sheep’s wool in a trice, after which we must run down the precocious youngsters who have cheated us of a goodly share of our goods.” The process of “pulling the old sheep’s wool” was evidently the stealing of the unconscious man’s pocketbook, for the speaker began to rifle him of whatever he carried of value. But he was interrupted in a most unexpected manner. At the very moment his fingers closed on the well-filled wallet, an agile figure bounded out of the shadows of the alley, striking the stooping form of the robber with such force as to send him headlong into the gutter, the newcomer crying at the same time: “The cop! The cop!” This so startled the second ruffian that he turned and fled, while robber No. 1 scrambled to his feet just in season to see the boy who had given him such a blow seize the plethoric pocketbook and disappear around a corner. “Stop thief!” cried the would-be robber. “Bill, where are you? Stop the youngster!” The twain then gave furious pursuit. While this chase was taking place, a passer-by was attracted by the prostrate figure of Deacon Cornhill, and thinking murder had been committed, he was about to give an alarm, when a voice at his elbow said: “Don’t stir a noise, Jim.”