“Let go, I say!” cried Tambourine Jack. Skip did release his hold, saying: “You are genuine; I thought it was another.” “And has any gentleman arrived in town that resembles me?” inquired Jack. “I should just like to set my eyes on him, I would.” “And so would I, if I had the upper hand,” muttered the ruffian. “Strange, you should have taken anyone for me,” said Tambourine. “You might know me by Crackers.” “That’s where I got taken in,” said Skip. “He had a yellow dog just the size of yours, and he also called him Crackers.” “Do you hear that, Crackers?” said Tambourine Jack, addressing the mongrel with great solemnity. “There are a couple of fakirs traveling around injuring our good name. We’ll bring an action against them”--the speaker turned to Brodie and held out his immense hands for inspection--“I’ll lay Crackers against a soda biscuit that this nervy chap did not have a pair of flips like them.” Both the barmaid and Brodie laughed at this. “Come, Skip,” said the barmaid, leading the way to the back room. “Can I come?” asked Jack. “Yes,” replied Brodie; “there is no mistake about your identity this time.” At a table in the back room was Elmer Greer, and seated opposite him a fellow of the bruiser type, who kept the place. The pair professed to be glad to see the newcomers, except Crackers. That member of the party sniffed around Greer’s legs in a manner to make their owner very uncomfortable. “Jack, get me some dry togs and bring in some roaring hot punch. I swam down from the ranch.” Skip’s hearers were surprised, and began to ply him with questions, all of which he refused to answer until he had changed his clothing. When he had effected a change and gulped down more than one glass of punch, he gave them a recital of what had occurred. They were all attention, especially Elmer Greer. “Are you sure, Skip,” he said, “that Hilton Field is safe?” “Of course.” “But those fellows may go back on us,” suggested Greer; “money is tempting, and in the course of a day or two a large sum will be offered for information of his whereabouts. Then, too, the detectives may discover the hand we had in it.” “Nick Carter already knows that. Dell Ladley, you may be sure, once she began to talk, kept nothing from him.” “Where have they taken the banker?” asked Greer. “To the old house up at Sands Point, on Long Island,” was the reply. “You need not fear for his safety. Mackrell is with them, and he is as true as steel.” The owner of the face pressed against the glass window that gave light and sometimes ventilation to the room, drank in this last speech of Brodie’s with great satisfaction. And when the ruffian had finished the face disappeared. “Our friend here,” said Jack Shea, the proprietor of the den, addressing Skip and nodding toward Elmer, “has a nice lay for the boys.” “Carrying off another old bloke, I suppose,” remarked Brodie. “No, something in the bank-cracking line. It’s a soft thing.”