CHAPTER VI.

TRACKED.

Young Van Quintem sat at the farther end of the stage, absorbed in his own thoughts.  His thin lips moved restlessly at times, as if he were arguing to himself.  In his hand he still held the crumpled note.  Twice he unfolded it, and read the contents carefully; then crushed it in his hand again.  Bog watched him through the window of the stage door—­not looking straight at him, but with that side vision with which we trace the outline of faint comets.  He was aware that young Van Quintem looked at him twice suspiciously, and then settled back into his own meditations.  Bog felt safe in his disguise—­or rather his original and native dress.

When the stage stopped to take in or let out passengers, Bog slipped from his perch, and hid himself from the driver’s sight.  Long experience had taught him how to render himself invisible to that vindictive personage.

The stage rolled on to the Greenpoint ferry, dropping all its passengers by the way, excepting the pursued and the pursuer.  It was now evident that young Van Quintem was going to Greenpoint.

The ferry boat was not in, and would not be in, and ready to leave again, for ten minutes.  Bog, having seen his game enter the ferry house, thereby conclusively proving his intention to cross the river, slipped into a boiler yard near the ferry.  There, against a post, he scrawled with a stump of pencil, on the back of two playbills (which he had brought with him for stationery), two notes, as follows: 

     Tuesday Evening, about 8 o’clock.

     Please come to the ferry house on the Greenpoint side, and
     wait there till I send for you.  BOG.

These notes he addressed to Mr. Van Quintem, sen., and Mrs. Crull, at their residences.  The next step was to find a boy to deliver them.  Bog did not have to wait long for that.  Boys of the ragged and city-wise variety may be picked up at any corner of New York at any hour of the day or night.

Another Eighth-street stage, which came rattling toward the ferry, brought a fine specimen of the juvenile vagrant and dare-devil, seated on the step.  Bog looked out of the boiler yard, and hailed him with a shrill whistle, formed by thrusting two fingers in the mouth, and blowing fiercely.  The boy recognized the signal of his ragged tribe, slid off the seat, and came running to where Bog was standing.  As he drew near, Bog recognized him as a trusty lad whom he had employed as file leader in a walking advertisement procession, several weeks before.

“Wot yer want, hey?” asked this youth.

“Know me?” asked Bog.

“Know ye?  No.  Yer a’n’t one of our fellers.”

“Look again.”  Bog raised his ragged cap, and smoothed his hair back.

“Why, it’s Mr. Bogert.  Cuss me if it a’n’t!”