"Cut it!" whispered the second tramp. "Youse don't know
dem guys at all. Dey may be de guys dat beats us up; but dat
big stiff dere is more dan dat. He's wanted in Chi, an' dere's
half a t'ou on 'im."
"Who put youse jerry to all dat?" inquired the first tramp,
skeptically.
"I was in de still wit 'im--he croaked some guy. He's a
lifer. On de way to de pen he pushes dis dick off'n de rattler
an' makes his get-away. Dat peter-boy we meets at Quincy
slips me an earful about him. Here's w'ere we draws down de
five hundred if we're cagey."
"Whaddaya mean, cagey?"
"Why we leaves 'em alone an' goes to de nex' farm an' calls
up K. C. an' tips off de dicks, see?"
"Youse don't tink we'll get any o' dat five hun, do youse,
wit de dicks in on it?"
The other scratched his head.
"No," he said, rather dubiously, after a moment's deep
thought; "dey don't nobody get nothin' dat de dicks see first;
but we'll get even with dese blokes, annyway."
"Maybe dey'll pass us a couple bucks," said the other
hopefully. "Dey'd orter do dat much."
Detective Sergeant Flannagan of Headquarters, Chicago,
slouched in a chair in the private office of the chief of
detectives of Kansas City, Missouri. Sergeant Flannagan was
sore.
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