“I don’t believe Trowbridge would play us that kind of a trick,” remarked Sumner; “it’s too mean a thing to do.”
At this point the suppressed Wilmot began to wave his hands about in gestures which indicated that he wished permission to speak.
“Let go of him, Pete; he wants to say something!” commanded the captain.
Wilmot, obtaining release by this pantomime, escaped to a safer position. “You haven’t said anything about going to see Callahan.”
“I forgot that. He thought Jason and some one else had better hunt up Callahan and get his evidence.”
At this proposal, Dunn, who stood on the outskirts of the crowd, was edging away, but Eaton dragged him back. “I won’t!” said the unfortunate, sullenly. “I don’t want anything more to do with it.”
“You’ve got to,” Eaton retorted. “You’ve got us into this scrape; now you must get us out.”
“You’ll have to go, too, Harry,” said Talbot, calmly treating Dunn’s refusal as if it had not been made.
“I must be at the practice. Steve can go. He’s no use for anything else.”
“I can’t go, either,” began Wilmot. “I’ve got to look after the balls and take care of the sweaters and—”
“Shut up!” interrupted Talbot. “Mike will attend to all that, won’t you, Mike?”
“I’m not the man for it; I couldn’t get anything out of him,” insisted Wilmot. “A simple, inoffensive fellow like me could never make any one do anything he doesn’t want to. Pete ought to go. He’s got an awful crust.”
“You’re going,” answered Talbot; “it’s the manager’s job. If Callahan can stand your talk for ten minutes without giving you anything you ask to get rid of you, he’ll be the first man who’s ever done it. You remember the address, Jason?”
Dunn thought he did. “Then it’s settled,” said Talbot. “Let’s get something to eat.”
That afternoon Wilmot and Dunn journeyed to East Boston together in search of Callahan. They had little to say to each other on the way. Wilmot disliked Dunn, and Dunn was afraid of Wilmot; neither relished the expedition on which they were engaged. After much questioning and unnecessary wandering they arrived at No. 73 Doble Street and asked if Mr. Callahan lived there.
Yes, Mr. Callahan lived there, but was not at home; he would be in about five. The boys drifted forth to kill time as best they could, hung round the steamship docks, where a big Cunarder was being loaded, until darkness fell, and then strolled slowly back to the abode of the ex-coach.