I decided at last that Billy was playing a game of his own. For Billy
Durgin, though sixteen years old, had happy access to our world of fine
fabling; and to this I knew he resorted at those times when his duties
as porter at the City Hotel palled upon his romantic spirit.
Billy, in short, was a detective, well soaked in the plenteous
literature of his craft and living in the dream that criminals would one
day shudder at the bare mention of his name.
Nor was he unprovided with a badge of office. Upon his immature chest,
concealed by his waist-coat, was an eight-pointed star emblazoned with
an open eye. Billy had once proudly confided to me that the star was
"pure German Silver." A year before he had answered an advertisement
which made known that a trusty man was wanted in every community "to act
for us in a confidential capacity. Address for particulars, with stamp."
The particulars were that you sent the International Detective
Association five dollars for a badge. After that you were their
confidential agent, and if a "case" occurred in your territory, you were
the man they turned to.
Billy's five hard-earned dollars had gone to the great city, and back
had come his star.
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