for any bigger pickings which the day might bring forth. He and Bud, I remembered, had conferred long and earnestly that day at Long Beach when I first met my Hero-Man. But I, of course, had taken no part in that conference.
I was just marshaling these different facts in my mind when I noticed Pinky McClone's big bronzed hand creep out to the pocket that held the wallet. It was as quick and neat a bit of poke-snatching as I'd ever seen. Not another person in that closely packed crowd caught a glimpse of the move. A moment later Pinky was edging airily off toward Fifth Avenue and I was wondering just what I ought to do. Before I had a chance to answer that, however, a wail went up from the stunned old bank-runner and he was sobbingly announcing to a rather skeptical circle of onlookers that he had been robbed.
I didn't wait to feel sorry for him. For Pinky, by this time, had turned south on the avenue and was drifting down through the crowd toward Madison Square, shaking hands with himself, I suppose, to find that he'd worked such a neat get-away. But he was as easy to spot as a light-house. I followed, close at his heels.
We were well In the square when he suddenly stopped, swerved, and dropped into an empty bench
