A troop of boys came down the street from the direction of the Bayport high school, and Riley instinctively stiffened. If it were not for those confounded boys, life would be very different for him. They did not seem to appreciate the dignity of his position. They were always contriving schemes to make him look ridiculous.
He spied the Hardy boys with their companions, and his frown deepened. Too smart, altogether, those Hardy lads. They weren’t mischievous, he had to admit that, but they were meddling in the work of the police a little too much. Already they had been credited with solving a couple of mysteries that he, Con Riley, would certainly have solved alone if he had been given a little more time.
Then there was Chet Morton—a boy who was born to be hanged, if ever there was one. He’d come to a bad end some day, that fellow. So would all the rest of them, Tony Prito, Phil Cohen, Jerry Gilroy, Biff Hooper—the whole pack of ’em.
Still, Con Riley was in a good humor that afternoon, so he unbended sufficiently to bestow a nod of greeting upon the boys. To his surprise they gathered around him.
“What has been done with Paul Blum?” asked Frank.
“He’s in jail,” said Riley, with the portentous frown he always assumed when discussing matters of crime. “He’s in jail, and in jail he’ll stay.”
“Hasn’t he been tried yet?”
The constable shook his head.
“Not yet. The rascal has a lawyer and the case has been adjourned.”
“Not much doubt that he’ll get a heavy sentence,” remarked Chet, who was carrying beneath his arm a package wrapped in brown paper.
“No doubt of it at all,” agreed Riley.
“Didn’t you fellows tell me that Lieutenant Riley helped capture the counterfeiter?” asked Chet innocently, turning to the Hardy boys.
Riley’s chest expanded visibly when he heard himself referred to as “Lieutenant,” and when it dawned on him that Chet thought he had a part in the actual capture of Blum he tried to look as modest as possible, although he did not succeed very well.
“Oh, I helped. I helped,” he said, with a deprecatory wave of the hand.
“If it hadn’t been for Officer Riley the fellow might have got away,” said Joe smoothly. “He slapped the handcuffs on Blum in the neatest manner you ever saw. He was waiting for us right at the dock.”
Riley beamed. This was praise, however undeserved, and he basked in the admiration of the boys. He told himself that he had perhaps been mistaken in his estimation of these lads after all. They were not mischievous young rascals, but bright, intelligent, high-minded boys who recognized human worth when they saw it and who respected achievement.
“Yes,” he said heavily, “I got Blum behind the bars and he won’t get out again in a hurry.”
He said it as though he had personally been responsible for Blum’s capture and personally responsible for seeing that the prisoner was kept safely locked up.
“No, he won’t get away on you, Lieutenant Riley,” said Chet.
Con Riley’s opinion of Chet increased. The boy had mistaken him for a lieutenant. The mistake was natural enough, perhaps, but it would have to be corrected.
“Officer,” he pointed out sadly. “Not lieutenant—officer.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you’re not a lieutenant?” exclaimed Chet in well-assumed amazement.
“Not yet,” replied the officer, leaving the impression, however, that it was only a matter of hours before such promotion should be his in the natural course of events.
Chet turned to his companions.
“Can you imagine that!” he exclaimed. “There’s the police force for you. They keep a solid, brainy man like Riley here on the beat and let fellows like Collig be chief. It’s wrong, I tell you. It’s wrong.”
The boys gravely agreed that it was scandalous.
“A man’s just got to be patient,” said Riley, with the air of a martyr, and beginning to feel ill-used.
“There’s a limit to patience!” exclaimed Chet. “They’re imposing on you, Mr. Riley. If I were you, I’d insist on my rights.”
“Never mind,” said Riley darkly. “My turn will come.”
“You’re just right it will. And we’ll see that it comes very soon. Let’s try to stir up public opinion, fellows, and see if we can’t influence the public a little bit. If the public demands that Officer Riley be promoted, he’ll be promoted.”
“Why, that’s very good of you,” returned Riley pompously. “A few words in the right place mightn’t do any harm at all.”
“Those words shall be said,” Chet assured him earnestly. “You may depend on us, Mr. Riley. We will see that your qualities of leadership are recognized. You’re the only man who can wake this city up.”
Con Riley, a trifle dazed by this avalanche of flattery, but nevertheless feeling that every bit of it was deserved and that the boys deserved credit for their perception, beamed with appreciation.
“Why, I never had no idea you lads felt like this,” he said. “I always thought you had a sort of grudge against me.”
The boys immediately disclaimed any such sentiments.
“We may have been a little bit troublesome at times,” agreed Chet regretfully; “but that was because we didn’t understand you. After this, you may depend on us. Your time will come, Mr. Riley. Your time will come.”
With this fine oratorical effort, Chet produced the package from beneath his arm. “By the way,” he said, “I wonder if you would mind guarding this package for me, Mr. Riley? You’ll be here for the next ten minutes, won’t you?”
A doubt flashed across Riley’s mind.
“Why don’t your
