The captain interrupted.  He asked sharp, incisive questions and got busy.  Presently he reached for a ’phone, got in touch with a sergeant at the police desk in the upper corridor, and sent an attendant with Johnnie to the Police Department.

The Irish sympathies of the sergeant were aroused by the naive honesty of the little man.  He sent for another sergeant, had card records brought, consulted a couple of patrolmen, and then turned to Johnnie.

“We’ve met your friend all right,” he said with a grin.  “He’s wan heluva lad.  Fits the description to a T. There can’t be but one like him here.”  And he went on to tell the story of the adventure of the janitor and the hose and that of its sequel, the resale of the fifty-five-dollar suit to I. Bernstein, who had reported his troubles to the police.

The washed-out eyes of the puncher lit up.  “That’s him.  That’s sure him.  If the’ was two of him they’d ce’tainly be a hell-poppin’ team.  Clay he’s the best-natured fellow you ever did see, but there can’t nobody run a whizzer on him, y’ betcha.  Tell me where he’s at?”

“We don’t know.  We can show you the place where he tied the janitor, but that’s the best we can do.”  The captain hesitated.  “If you find him, give him a straight tip from me.  Tell him to buy a ticket for Arizona and take the train for home.  This town is no healthy place for him.”

“Because he hogtied a Swede,” snorted Johnnie indignantly.

“No.  He’s got into more serious trouble than that.  Your friend has made an enemy—­a powerful one.  He’ll understand if you tell him.”

“Who is this here enemy?”

“Never mind.  He hit up too fast a pace.”

“You can’t tell me a thing against Clay—­not a thing,” protested Johnnie hotly.  “He’ll sure do to take along, Clay will.  There can’t any guy knock him to me if he does wear a uniform.”

“I’m not saying a thing against him,” replied the officer impatiently.  “I’m giving him a friendly tip to beat it, if you see him.  Now I’m going to send you up-town with a plain-clothes man.  He’ll show you where your friend made his New York debut.  That’s all we can do for you.”

An hour later the little cowpuncher was gazing wistfully at the hitching-post.  His face was twisted pathetically to a question mark.  It was as though he thought he could conjure from the post the secret of Clay’s disappearance.  Where had he gone from here?  And where was he now?

In the course of the next two days the Runt came back to that post many times as a starting-point for weary, high-heeled tramps through streets within a circuit of a mile.  He could not have explained why he did so.  Perhaps it was because this was the only spot in the city that held for him any tangible relationship to Clay.  Some one claimed to have seen him vanish into one of these houses.  Perhaps he might come back again.  It was a very tenuous hope, but it was the only one Johnnie had.  He clumped over the pavements till his feet ached in protest.