Hugh and Bob looked on, fascinated.
When about thirty yards distant the man stooped and appeared to be
fumbling with something at his feet. Only for a moment, however, for he
soon straightened up again and proceeded on his way.
"Halt!" commanded Harold sharply.
The man started, and then came to an abrupt stop.
"Come over here," Harold ordered.
His order was obeyed somewhat slowly, but without question.
"What's your name?" queried Harold, as the man came up to him.
There was no answer.
"What's your name?" repeated Harold shortly.
"John Moffett," said the man sullenly.
"Where do you live?"
"High Ridge."
"Where in High Ridge?"
"Elm Street."
"What number?"
"Twelve eighty-two," said the man after a moment's hesitation.
"What are you doing on this bridge?"
"I been across the river to see my brother."
"Why didn't you take the passenger's bridge then, instead of this?"
"This one is shorter for me."
"Oh, no, it isn't," said Harold quickly. "The other one takes you right
into Elm Street.
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