"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 Shag, "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 Shag, 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