with a tin growler.

"Yah! You won't git in to sell him no books," says he, leerin' at us.

"Think so?" says I, displayin' a quarter temptin'. "Maybe if we had his
name, though, and knew something about him, we might--"

"It's Bauer," says the janitor, eyein' the two bits longin'. "Herman Z.
Bauer; a big brewer once, but now--yah, an old cripple. Gout, they say.
And mean as he is rich. See that high fence? He built that to shut off
our light--the swine! Bauer, his name is. You ask for Herman Bauer.
Maybe you get in."

"Thanks, old sport," says I, slippin' him the quarter. "Give him your
best regards, shall I?"

And as he goes off chucklin' the Lieutenant whispers hoarse:

"Hah! I knew it. Bauer, eh? And to-night he'll be sitting at one of
those back windows, his ears stuffed with cotton, watching to see your
plant blown up. We must have the constables here right away."

"On what charge?" says I. "That two of the kitchen maids was seen in
their own back yard? You know you can't spring that safety-of-the-realm
stuff over here. The police would only give us the laugh. We got to
have something definite to tell the sergeant. Let's go after it."

"But I say!" protests Cecil. "Just how, you know?"

"Not by stickin' here, anyway," says I. "Kick in and use your bean, is