I spoke to Solon of Billy Durgin, whose peculiar, not to say mysterious, behavior I had been compelled to notice.  I had first observed him that afternoon as we passed the City Hotel.  Through the window of the little wash-room, where I saw that he was polishing a pair of shoes, he had winked at me from over his task, and then erected himself to make a puzzling gesture with one hand.  Again, while we stood dream-bound before the window of the corner drug store, he had sent me a low whistle from across the street, following this with another puzzling arm wave; whereat he had started toward us.  But instead of accosting me, as I had thought he meant to, he rushed by, with eyes rigidly ahead and his thin jaws grimly set.  Throughout the stroll he haunted us, adhering to this strange line of conduct.  I would turn a corner, to find Billy apparently waiting for me a block off.  Then would follow a signal of no determinable import, after which he would walk swiftly past me as if unaware of my presence.  Once I started to address him, but was met with “Not a word!” hissed at me in his best style from between clenched teeth.

I decided at last that Billy was playing a game of his own.  For Billy Durgin, though sixteen years old, had happy access to our world of fine fabling; and to this I knew he resorted at those times when his duties as porter at the City Hotel palled upon his romantic spirit.

Billy, in short, was a detective, well soaked in the plenteous literature of his craft and living in the dream that criminals would one day shudder at the bare mention of his name.

Nor was he unprovided with a badge of office.  Upon his immature chest, concealed by his waist-coat, was an eight-pointed star emblazoned with an open eye.  Billy had once proudly confided to me that the star was “pure German Silver.”  A year before he had answered an advertisement which made known that a trusty man was wanted in every community “to act for us in a confidential capacity.  Address for particulars, with stamp.”

The particulars were that you sent the International Detective Association five dollars for a badge.  After that you were their confidential agent, and if a “case” occurred in your territory, you were the man they turned to.

Billy’s five hard-earned dollars had gone to the great city, and back had come his star.  He wore it secretly at first, but was moved at length to display it to a few chosen friends; not wisely chosen, it would appear, for now there were mockers of Billy among the irreverent of the town.  As he sat aloft on his boot-blacking throne, waiting for crime to be done among us, conning meantime one of those romances in which his heroes did rare deeds, he would be subjected to intrusion.  Some coarse town humorist would leer upon him from the doorway—­a leer of furtive, devilish cunning—­and whisper hoarsely, “Hist!  Are we alone?”

Struck thus below the belt of his dignity, our hero could only respond:—­