"Here y'are, kid--this way," said one, smilingly. "You'll see a door to your right marked _Carlton Conne--Private_--that's where you're to go. Mr. Conne wants to see some of you kids." Skippy grinned amiably. He was not afraid, as he trudged manfully into the holy of holies to confront the famous head of the world-renowned detective agency, whose picture he had so many times seen in the newspapers. The great detective was not an awe-inspiring spectacle. He sat in his shirt sleeves, his chair tilted back and his feet resting on the desk. He was a stocky, middle-aged man with a bristly moustache and a crisp, aggressive look. Also he was smoking a long black cigar (Skippy soon learned that this was a fixed habit with the man) which he dexterously moved from one end of his mouth to the other as he talked. When he listened, he had a way of tilting it at an upright angle which gave him a very shrewd and sophisticated air. It was this attitude that captivated Skippy. "Well," he said in his gruff, yet kindly manner, "you're one of the kids that got in the way of that stolen car, eh? Your arm's busted, eh?" "No sir," Skippy answered promptly with unabashed frankness. "My name's Skippy Dare an' I just wanted to get in here--kind of--so--so I could talk to you. But...." Carlton Conne brought his feet down from the desk and stared. "But the sling--what's it for?" "That typewriter girl," said Skippy rapidly, "she said I couldn't see you about a job--that you didn't need nobody." "You mean you talked to Miss Purdy, our reception clerk?" asked the detective with an enigmatic scowl. "Yeah, I guess that's who it was. She was in that first room out there with the big soft rug an' she was pretty all right, but she was cranky an' wouldn't lissen. I tried to tell her I wanted a job right away an' be a detective an'...." Carlton Conne lifted his feet from the floor and set them back again on the desk. He shifted the cigar about in his mouth three or four times, then interposed: "So you got in here under false pretenses, eh?" Before Skippy could answer, he added, "What put the sling idea into your head?" "While I was talkin' to the--to Miss Purdy, a feller come out an' said about the stolen car an' all an' how you wanted the kids that was run down so's you could talk to 'em. So right away I thought about the sling an' I sneaked into the hall an' hid on the stairway till she goes out for lunch. Then I fixed the sling from the taila my shirt.... I'll be good at disguises, Mr. Conne--that's why I know I'd be a good detective." "Oh, you do, eh?" A mirthful gleam lighted the detective's eyes, but his face was wrinkled into a scowl. "I suppose your other disguise today consists of working papers, eh? You can't be more than fourteen." "Gee, how'd you guess!" Carlton Conne looked at the boy sharply. "S'pose you've been blowing in all your spending money on cheap detective magazines and going to these rotten mystery thrillers, eh?"