AN OLD FRIEND.

"Py chimineddy!" muttered Carl Pretzel to himself, starting up on the couch, where he had been snatching forty winks by way of passing the time. "Vat's dot? Der voice has some familiar sounds mit me. Lisden vonce."

A loud, jovial voice floated in through the open window, a voice with a swing to it that set Carl's nerves in a flutter.

The roaring song had come closer and closer. By then it was almost under the open window. Jumping from the couch, Carl ran across the room and looked out.

A youth of seventeen or eighteen, wearing a sailor rig and with his hat cocked over one eye, was lurching along with both hands in his pockets. Behind him trailed four or five hoodlums, bunched close together and talking among themselves.

"Here's where I quit you, you lubbers," said the young sailor, halting at the steps leading up to the boarding-house door, and turning to the hoodlums. "A messmate of mine berths here, and I'm going to drop in on him and have a bit of a chat over old times. 'Bout ship, the lot of you, and make a good offing. I don't like the cut of your jibs any too well, anyhow. Slant away, slant away."

The sailor backed up against a post at the bottom of the steps.

"Say, yous ole webfoot," said one of the hoodlums, "loosen up, can't yous, an' fork over the price o' a drink, all around?"

The fellow shambled closer to the sailor and held out one hand with an expectant grin.

"Not a bob will I give you for a tot of drink," answered the sailor, "for I'll be keelhauled if you don't look as though you'd already been topping the boom too much for your own good, but I'll loosen up, as you call it, for a good meal all around."

His hand went into the pocket of his trousers and he drew out a big roll of bills. A greedy gleam darted into the hoodlum's eyes as he glimpsed the bundle of money, and those at his back pushed closer together, nudging each other in the ribs and pointing while the sailor's head was bent.

Suddenly the rascal who had acted as spokesman for the rest made a leap and a grab.

"Avast there, you loafing longshore scuttler!" yelled the young tar. "What sort of a beachcomber's trick do you call that?"

The hoodlum had whirled, the roll in his hands, and was making off as fast as his legs could carry him. The sailor sprang after him, but the rest of the thieving pack jumped in his way and began using their fists, hoping to give their pal the necessary time to get clear with the money.

Carl Pretzel, with an angry shout, withdrew from the open window, dashed from the room, down the stairs and out at the front door. Without paying any attention to the sailor and those with whom he was tussling, the Dutch boy rushed past the struggling group and made a bee line after the thief.

Carl was too fat for a swift sprinter, but the thieving hoodlum was handicapped by a game leg, and Carl was able to overhaul him slowly.

Looking over his shoulder in order to take in the situation behind, the thief saw the Dutch boy, and redoubled his efforts to get away. An alley lay just ahead, and the thief turned into it. Carl plunged after him, but when he got into the alley, the fellow with the money had mysteriously vanished.

"Dot's a funny t'ing!" panted Carl, coming to a halt and peering around. "Vere dit he go mit himseluf?"

Garbage barrels and boxes lined the alley on both sides. Carl started onward again, peering sharply behind each garbage receptacle as he advanced. Suddenly he discovered the man he was looking for, crouching behind a big box.

Carl was a little way beyond the box before he caught sight of the thief.

"Dere you vas!" he yelled, as he faced about. "Now I ged you, und I dake avay vat you got—yah, so helup me!"

He rushed at the thief, and the latter got up, squirmed around the end of the box, and leaped for the side of a shed whose wall stood flush with the alley.

The shed had a square opening, about four feet from the ground, for convenience in unloading wood. The thief had his eye on the opening. If he could get into the shed, he probably reasoned, he could run through into the back yard of the house, gain the street in front, and so, undoubtedly, evade his fat pursuer.

But he didn't make it. By the time he was half through the opening, Carl was close enough to grab his thrashing feet, and he hung onto them like grim death.

"How you like dot, hey?" jubilated the Dutch boy. "You findt oudt, py shimmy, dot it don'd vas so easy to ged avay mit money dot don'd pelong mit you. Oof you shkin oudt, you leaf your feet pehind, und oof you don't come pack indo der alley, den I pull you in two. How vas dot for some fixes?"

"Wot's de matter wit' yous?" came the angry, muffled voice from inside the shed. "Le'go 'r I'll kick a hole in your face!"

"You vill I don'd t'ink," puffed Carl, still hanging to the feet. "Gif oop der money, you dinhorn, oder I turn you ofer py der bolice und you go to der lockoop."

The hoodlum made no move to return the money, but continued to struggle wildly. With a firm hold on each ankle, Carl laid back and pulled for all he was worth; but the thief had caught hold of something inside and all Carl's pulling didn't get him an inch toward the alley.

While the whole matter was at a deadlock, the thief half in half out of the shed, and Carl tugging fruitlessly, the young sailor appeared at the end of the alley. Taking quick note of the situation at the shed, he gave a yell and bore down in that direction.

"Well, strike me lucky, old ship," cried the young tar, "this is my busy day and no mistake. Is that the duffing son of a flounder that got away with my wad?"

"He iss der feller, Verral," panted Carl. "He don'd vant to come out oof der vood shet."

"Hang onto his pins, matey," was the answer, "and I'll fix him."

The sailor pushed his hands through the hole, grabbed the hoodlum by the throat, and exerted a steady pressure.

This manoeuvre was successful. Half strangled, the thief's clutching fingers relaxed their hold, and the sailor and Carl, between them, managed to drag him back into the alley.

"Now, you pirate," cried the sailor, dropping down on the captive, "where's that money? That was a raw play you made and you might have pulled it off if it hadn't been for my mate, here. D'you want to go below, in irons? Where's the roll?"

"Look in his bocket vonce," suggested Carl.

"I'll kill you fer dis!" fumed the hoodlum.

"Stow that!" growled the sailor. "I've a knife at the end of my lanyard, but there's nothing about this that calls for cold steel. Drop down on his feet, Carl, and that will hold him steady while I go through his clothes."

While the Dutch boy sat on the hoodlum's feet, the sailor was able to push his hands into the thief's pockets. The roll was found and appropriated, and both boys leaped up.

The hoodlum floundered erect.

"I'll git even fer dis!" he scowled. "Yous can't run in dat kind of a play on Nifty Perkins an' make it stick."

"Bear away!" cried the sailor angrily. "Maybe that'll help you," and he gave the villainous scoundrel a kick that sent him two yards on his way toward the street.

The hoodlum turned to shake his fist, and mutter a threat, then started off at a run. When he reached the street, the rest of his pals joined him. For a time they hung about the alley entrance, apparently trying to make up their minds whether it would be wise to attack the sailor and Carl in force.

"Donnervetter!" cried Carl. "Dot looks like a shance for some scrappings. I don'd vas looking for drouple, aber you bed somet'ing for nodding dot I don'd dodge any. Come along mit yourseluf, Verral! Led's gif dem fellers Hail Golumby."

"Cut away!" shouted the young sailor. "The swabs that ran foul of me bolted as soon as you crossed that other chap's hawse. I'd like to square my score with them."

But the hoodlums did not wait. Carl and the sailor looked altogether too war-like. By the time the two boys reached the end of the alley, the street rowdies had taken to their heels.

"A jolly fine lot they are!" cried the sailor contemptuously. "You saved my roll for me, Carl. Haven't had time to shake your hand before, but I can do it now to the king's taste. Your flipper, mate!"

Carl gripped the sailor's hand.

"Vat a surbrise it iss!" he exclaimed. "I don'd haf time to say mooch aboudt dot, eider, aber ven I heardt you singing mit yourself, und looked oudt oof der vinder und saw dot you vas Tick Verral, I ketched my breat' a gouple oof times. Vere you come from, Tick?"

"From Denver, messmate," answered Dick Ferral. "My uncle supplies me with plenty of money, but just the same I'd hate to lose that roll. He made me a present of it when I started for Quebec. But where's my old raggie, Motor Matt? I stopped off here in Chicago just to see him. Got his address from the Lestrange automobile people, and I'm fair hungry to grip his fin, once more. I'll never forget what Matt King did for me—and my uncle won't, either."

"He don'd vas in Chicago schust now, Tick," said Carl. "He vill be pack in two or dree tays, meppy. Anyhow, oof he don'd come pack py do-morrow, meppy ve go oudt vere he iss, und see him? Vat you t'ink oof dot?"

Dick Ferral's disappointment was keen, and he showed it plainly.

"How far is he from here, Carl?" he asked.

"Only a leedle vays. It iss in a blace vat dey call Sout' Chicago."

"What's Matt doing out there?"

"Vell, ve hat some ructions oudt dere—a mighdy high olt time, you bed you. Look at here vonce. Ven you read somet'ing, den you vill know more."

Carl pulled a newspaper out of his pocket and held it under Ferral's eyes, indicating a certain paragraph with his finger.

What Ferral read was this:

"For Sale—The practicable air ship, Hawk, fully equipped with gasoline motor, rudders, propellers, and almost new gas bag. Apply to Chief of Police, South Chicago, Illinois."