"Well, tell him so, and give him a half dollar. Now don't disturb me again until we get to Colchester. How's the weather, s.h.a.g?"

"Well, sah, Colonel, it's--it's sorter--moist, Colonel!"

"Um! Well, it'll be better by to-morrow, I expect, when we go fishing.

And be careful of my rods when you take the grips off. If you so much as scratch the tip of even my oldest one, I--I'll--well, you know what I'll do to you, s.h.a.g!"

"Yes, sah, I knows, Colonel!"

"Very well. Give that boy a dollar. Maybe he never read Walton, and that's why he's so ignorant."

Colonel Ashley settled back in his chair, and, with unfurrowed brow, read on:

". . . you shall see or hear him leap at flies, then if you get a gra.s.shopper, put it on your hook with your line about two yards long, standing behind a bush or tree where his hole is--"

Once more the colonel was happy.

s.h.a.g sought out the discomfited newsboy, and, chuckling as had his master, handed the lad a dollar.

"Say, what's this for?" questioned the lad, in astonishment.

"Colonel done say to give it to you fo' hurtin' yo' feelin's."

"He did! Great! Say, does he want a book--a, paper? Say, I got a swell detective story--"

The boy started out of the compartment.

"Oh, mah good Lord! Fo' th' love of honey cakes, don't!" gasped s.h.a.g, grabbing him just in time. "Does yo' know who the colonel is?"

"No, but he's mighty white if he wants to buy a dollar's worth of books and papers. I haven't sold much on this trip, but if he--"

"But he don't want to, boy! Don't you understan'? Jes' listen to me right now! De colonel don't want nothin' but Walton an' his angle worms!"

"Who's Walton? What road's he travel on?"

"He don't travel. He's daid, I reckon. But he done writ a book on fishin' poles, an' dat's all the colonel reads when he ain't workin'

much. It's a book 'bout angle worms as neah as I kin make out."

"You mean Izaak Walton's Complete Angler, I guess," said a man, who pa.s.sed by just then on his way to the smoking compartment, and he smiled genially at s.h.a.g.

"Dat's it, yes, sah! I knowed it had suffin t' do wif angle worms.

Well, boy, dat book's all de colonel ever reads when he's vacationin', an' dat's whut he's doin' now--jest vacationin'.

"When we start away dis mawnin' he say to me, the colonel did: 'Now, s.h.a.g, I don't want t' be boddered wif nuffin'. I don't want t' read no papers. I don't want t' heah 'bout no battles, murder an' sudden deaths. I jest wants peace an' quiet an' fish!' He done come up heah t' go fishin' laik he go t' lots other places, though he ain't been heah fo' good many years. An' boy, he specially tell me _not_ t' let him be boddered wif book agents."

"I ain't a book agent," objected the train-boy.

"I knows you ain't," admitted s.h.a.g. "I knows yo' ain't, but yo' sells books, an' dat's whut's de trouble. Whut kind of a book did yo' offer de colonel jest now?"

"A detective story. And say! it's a swell one, let me tell you!"

"Oh, mah good Lord!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed s.h.a.g. "Dat's de wustest ever!" and he doubled up with silent mirth.

"Why, what's the matter with that?" asked the boy. "I've seen heaps of men read detective stories. Judge Dolan--he rides on my train a lot--and he's always askin' what I got new in detective stuff."

"Um, yep! Well, dat may be all right fo' Judge Dolan," went on s.h.a.g, slowly recovering from his fit of chuckling, "but mah marster don't want none of dat kind of readin'."

"Why?" asked the boy.

s.h.a.g's answer was given in a peculiar manner. He looked around carefully, and saw that the strange man had moved on and they were alone. Then, leaning toward the newsboy and whispering, the negro said:

"My marster, Colonel Brentnall--dat ain't his real name, but it's de one he goes by sometimes--he don't care fo' no detective stories 'cause he done make his livin' an' mine too, at detectin'. He says he don't ever want t' read 'em, 'cause dey ain't at all like whut happens. De colonel was one of de biggest private detectives in de United States, boy! He's sorter retired now, but still he's chock full of crimes, murder an' stuff laik dat, an' dat's why he done sent yo' away sorter rough-laik."

"You say he's a private detective?" asked the boy, his eyes opening wide.

"Dat's whut he is."

"And his name is Colonel Brentnall?"

"Well, honey, dat ain't his real name. He don't laik t' use dat promiscuious laik, 'cause so many folks bodder him. If I was t' tell yo' his real name yo'd open yo' eyes wider yet. But take it from me,"

went on s.h.a.g, "he don't need no books t' make excitin' readin' fo' him!

He's been froo it fo' yeahs!"

"Sufferin' tadpoles!" murmured the boy. "And to think I was offering _him_ a detective yarn! Say, no wonder he flew at me!"

"He didn't mean nothin'," said s.h.a.g, still chuckling as he thought of the scene. "It's jest his way."

The train rumbled on through the early night, and in his comfortable chair Colonel Ashley read his Walton, the ingratiating humor of the dear, old fisherman gradually dispelling all other thoughts.

Colonel Ashley at this stage of his career, was almost an international figure. Having served with distinction in the Spanish-American war, among his exploits being the capture of a number of spies in a sensational manner, he had become the head of the police department in a large city in the East.

He had continued the work begun in the army--a branch of the secret service--and had built up the city's detective department in an almost marvelous manner, he himself being one of its keenest sleuths.

Desiring more time to devote to the detection of crimes of other than ordinary interest, and realizing that the routine of police work was too hampering for him, the colonel had opened an office in New York, where, straightway, he received from the government and private persons more work than he could well attend to. Now that he was getting old, he had some able a.s.sistants, but most cases still received his own attention at some stage of their development. This was characteristic of the colonel. He was always going to retire, in fact he said he had, but, somehow or other, it was like a singer's farewell, always postponed.

"And now, s.h.a.g, don't forget what I told you," he said to his attendant as the train drew into Colchester. "Don't you so much as scratch the varnish on the tip of one of my rods. And if you let me hear a whisper of anything bordering on a case you and I part company--do you hear?"

"I heahs yo' Colonel!" and the negro saluted, for the detective still clung to many of his military a.s.sociations. Then, having kept his promise in seeing that the old lady was safely helped from the train, Colonel Ashley followed his valet, burdened with bags and rods.

The fishing rods s.h.a.g carried, he must have managed to transport safely to the hotel the colonel was to occupy for a two weeks' vacation and rest, for the military detective was smiling and good-natured when he took them from their cases and gently placed them on the bed.

"Anything else, Colonel?" asked s.h.a.g, when he had laid out his master's clothes, and was preparing to go to his own apartment in an annex to the hotel.

"No, I guess that's all, s.h.a.g. But what's your hurry? You aren't usually in such haste to leave me, even if you have laid out all my duds. What's the matter? Got some friends in town?"

"Oh, no, sah, Colonel! No, indeedy! 'tain't dat at all!"

"Well, what is it? Why are you in such haste to get away?"

"Um! Ah! Well, I don't laiks fo' t' tell yo' Colonel!" and s.h.a.g seemed uneasy.