Detective Bob Bridger — page 242: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

DETECTIVE BOB BRIDGER. 9835 “Ay, stop where you are, or we’ll riddle you!” cried the police sergeant, and a dozen ugly pistol tubes pointed down from the trap’s edge. “TI cave!” ejaculated Goucher, throwing up his hands. ‘ Jack, the Fork,” followed his example. “You are wise,” returned the sergeant. “And now tell us how to get down there.” ‘Through the flat cellar door in the back yard.” The instruction, however, was not needed, for the Scotch detective, leading the Central Office detectives, had already found the way. And barely had-Goucher spoken when the Scotch detec- tive, lantern in hand, bounded through the narrow door- way into the trap beneath, followed by his companions. The next moment Goucher and “ Jack, the Fork,” heard the old familiar click of steel as the Central Office detec- tives snapped the “ruffles” on their wrists. “Come down, Bobe, and let us be sure it’s you!” yelled the Scotch detective, and, as if his mind had some mis- givings on the subject, he turned the ‘‘duumy” over with his foot. Perceiving that it was in truth a “dummy,” he roared in laughter. Descending the wall as swiftly as his stiffened members would permit, Bridger soon reached the earthen floor. The Scotch detective awaited him with open arms, and ~ the two sleuth-hounds testified to their mutual satisfaction at the turn of events by giving each other a manly hug. “Pd never thought it you, Bobe, if you hadn’t said so. You’re red as blood from head to foot. Are you-hurt?” said the Scotch detective. ‘A shght cut on the head, which a little soap and water will fix allright.” | ‘‘And how did they get you here?” “Well, I chanced to meet Goucher on my way to the Bower Agency, and, feeling very grateful for past favors, he desired to present me some letters which he had re- ceived from the secretary of a gang of Kentucky moon- shiners; and, like a good gudgeon, I swallowed the miser- able old devil’s bait.” “You needn’t call me a devil,” growled Goucher, “‘for if the old fireman himself sports any worse make-up than you do, I want no ‘truck’ with him. Pew-rents would - take a raise if you could be induced to exhibit yourself in @ Cage.” Gomichooks.co m