Johnny Geer was a great help.  He was back in Roger’s office, and with the sharp wits he had gained in his eighteen years of fighting for a chance to stay alive, now at Roger’s elbow John was watching like a hawk for all the little ways and means of pushing up the business.  What a will the lad had to down bodily ills, what vim in the way he tackled each job.  His shrewd and cheery companionship was a distraction and relief.  John was so funny sometimes.

“Good-morning, Mr. Gale,” he said, as Roger came into the office one day.

“Hello, Johnny.  How are you?” Roger replied.

“Fine, thank you.”  And John went on with his work of opening the morning’s mail.  But a few minutes later he gave a cackling little laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Roger asked.

“Fellers,” was the answer.  “Fellers.  Human nature.  Here’s a letter from Shifty Sam.”

“Who the devil is he?  A friend of yours?”

“No,” said John, “he’s a ‘con man.’  He works about as mean a graft as any you ever heard of.  He reads the ‘ads’ in the papers—­see?—­of servant girls who’re looking for work.  He makes a specialty of cooks.  Then he goes to where they live and talks of some nice family that wants a servant right away.  He claims to be the butler, and he’s dressed to look the part.  ’There ain’t a minute to lose,’ he says.  ’If you want a chawnce, my girl, come quick.’  He says ‘chawnce’ like a butler—­see?  ‘Pack your things,’ he tells her, ‘and come right along with me.’  So she packs and hustles off with him—­Sam carrying her suit case.  He puts her on a trolley and says, ’I guess I’ll stay on the platform.  I’ve got a bit of a headache and the air will do me good.’  So he stays out there with her suit case—­and as soon as the car gets into a crowd, Sam jumps and beats it with her clothes.”

“I see,” said Roger dryly.  “But what’s he writing you about?”

“Oh, it ain’t me he’s writing to—­it’s you,” was John’s serene reply.  Roger started.

“What?” he asked.

“Well,” said the boy in a cautious tone, vigilantly eyeing his chief, “you see, a lot of these fellers like Sam have been in the papers lately.  They’re being called a crime wave.”

“Well?”

“Sam is up for trial this week—­and half the Irish cooks in town are waiting ’round to testify.  And Shifty seems to enjoy himself.  His picture’s in the papers—­see?  And he wants all the clippings.  So he encloses a five dollar bill.”

“He does, eh—­well, you write to Sam and send his money back to him!” There was a little silence.

“But look here,” said John with keen regret.  “We’ve had quite a lot of these letters this week.”

Roger wheeled and looked at him.

“John,” he demanded severely, “what game have you been up to here?”

“No game at all,” was the prompt retort.  “Just getting a little business.”

“How?”

“Well, there’s a club downtown,” said John, “where a lot of these petty crooks hang out.  I used to deliver papers there.  And I went around one night this month—­”