“’Dafternoon, Mr. Liechtenstein,” said Bubbles.

“’Dafternoon, Bubbles,” said Mr. Lichtenstein, without looking up.

“How d’je know it was me?”

“I saw you in the looking-glass.  What’s the news?”

“It’s for Harry.”

“And Harry is—­where?”

“Don’t you know where Harry is?”

“I do.  But you can’t get to him.”  Mr. Lichtenstein lowered his voice.  “He’s gone West, Bub, on the trail of O’Hagan.  The plant the old one is growing hasn’t put its head above ground yet, and the roots are in the West.  Out in Utah they’re teaching all kinds of Polacks to shoot rifles.  Why?  O’Hagan is travelling from one mine to another as a common laborer.  Why?  While here in little New York, the old one is sitting for his portrait and getting a perfectly innocent young girl talked about.  No use to watch the old one till later.”

“But,” said Bubbles, “suppose some one was to find a secret passage leading from the East River to—­to—­”

“To where?”

“He doesn’t know where.  He wanted to get Harry to go with him to find out.”

“Where does the passage begin, Bubbles?”

“Under Pier 31 A.”

[Illustration:  “’Dafternoon, Mr. Lichtenstein,” said Bubbles]

“Come over here, Bub,” said Mr. Lichtenstein and led the way to a mahogany table covered with green baize.  Upon this he spread a folding-map of New York City that he took from his inside pocket.  With the rapidity of thought his stubby forefinger found Pier 31A and passed from it to the crook in Marrow Lane.  And he said: 

“Hum!  The bee-line of it leads straight to Blizzard’s place.  There are two things to find out, Bub.  Is the passage straight?  And how long is it?  A light in the entrance to sight by will answer question No. 1, and a ball of twine to be unwound at leisure will answer No. 2.”

“You’d ought to have a compass,” Bubbles suggested, “to know just how she runs.”

“True,” said Mr. Lichtenstein.  “Happy thought.  And you could borrow one mounted in tiger’s eye from a friend.”

He laughed, took the little compass in question from its watch chain, and gave it to Bubbles.  Then, his voice losing its bantering tone and taking on a kind of faltering sincerity, he asked: 

“Do you want to play this hand, Bubbles, or do you want me to delegate some one else?”

“It’s my graft,” said Bubbles, “I’d like to see it through.”

Mr. Lichtenstein looked upon the boy with a certain pride and tenderness.  “I’d like to go with you,” he said, “but I can’t run any risks.  There’s the strings of too many things in my head.  In every battle there has to be a general who sits on a hill out of danger and orders other people to do brave things.  Remember that you’ve worked for us ever since Harry came in and said, laughing, ’Governor, I’ve made friends with a bright baby that knows how to keep his mouth shut,’ You’ve only to step up to Blizzard and say, ’Abe Lichtenstein is the head,’ to bring the gun-men down on me.  But you’d die first.”