"I can tell some that you can't find," Peewee insisted.
"You think you can? You come on; I'll show you!"
They ascended a narrow, dirty stair the smell of printer's ink growing stronger, to a small, dingy room filled with books, with bound files of newspapers, and, at one end, with filing cases and a table with a telephone. The older boy halted in front of the filing cases.
"This here is called the bone-yard," he announced. "Some call it the morgue. When someone dies, the local room calls me, and I give 'em the dope. You say I can't do it? You ask me about somebody. Shoot!"
Peewee pretended to reflect. "Find Markyn," he directed.
"Markyn? Say, that's easy."
The older boy selected one of the envelopes from a filing case and held it out. "There!" he exclaimed. "Say, ain't I right?"
"I'll see," Peewee answered.
He carried the envelope to the table, emptied it of its contents and began to look them over.
