McAllister, hatless, stumbled into the wagon and was thrust forcibly
into a corner. Above the steady drum of the rain upon the waterproof
cover he could hear the officers outside packing up the silverware and
discussing their capture.
The hot japanned tin of the wagon-lamps smelled abominably. The heavy
breathing of the horses, together with the sickening odor of rubber and
damp straw, told him that this was no dream, but a frightful reality.
"He's a bad un!" came Tom's voice in tones of caution. "You can see his
lay is the gentleman racket. Wait till he gets to the precinct and hear
the steer he'll give the sergeant. He's a wise un, and don't you forget
it!"
As the wagon started, the officers swung on to the steps behind.
McAllister, crouching in the straw by the driver's seat, tried to
understand what had happened. Apart from a few bruises and a cut on his
forehead he had escaped injury, and, while considerably shaken up, was
physically little the worse for his adventure. His head, however, ached
badly. What he suffered from most was a new and strange sensation of
helplessness. It was as if he had stepped into another world, in which
he--McAllister, of the Colophon Club--did not belong and the language of
which he did not speak. The ignominy of his position crushed him. Never
again, should this disgrace become known, could he bring himself to
enter the portals of the club. To be the hero of an exciting adventure
with a burglar in a runaway cab was one matter, but to be arrested,
haled to prison and locked up, was quite another. Once before the proper
authorities, it would be simple enough to explain who and what he was,
but the question that troubled him was how to avoid publicity. He
remembered the bills in his pocket. Fortunately they were still there.
In spite of the handcuffs, he wormed them out and surreptitiously held
up the roll. The guard started visibly, and, turning away his head,
allowed McAllister to thrust the wad into his hand.
"Can't I square this, somehow?" whispered our hero, hesitatingly.
The guard broke into a loud guffaw. "Get on to him!" he laughed. "He's
at it already, Tom. Look at the dough he took out of his pants! You're
right about his lay." He turned fiercely upon McAllister, who, dazed by
this sudden turn of affairs, once more retreated into his corner.
The three officers counted the money ostentatiously by the light of a
lantern.
"Eighty plunks! Thought we was cheap, didn't he?" remarked the guard
scornfully. "No; eighty plunks won't square this job for you! It'll take
nearer eight years. No more monkey business, now! You've struck the
wrong combine!"
McAllister saw that he had been guilty of a terrible _faux pas_. Any
explanation to these officers was clearly impossible. With an official
it would be different. He had once met a police commissioner at dinner,
and remembered that he had seemed really almost like a gentleman.
The wagon drew up at a police station, and presently McAllister found
himself in a small room, at one end of which iron bars ran from floor to
ceiling. A kerosene lamp cast a dim light over a weather-beaten desk,
behind which, half-asleep, reclined an officer on night duty. A single
other chair and four large octagonal stone receptacles were the only
remaining furniture.
The man behind the desk opened his eyes, yawned, and stared stupidly at
the officers. A clock directly overhead struck "one" with harsh, vibrant
clang.
"Wot yer got?" inquired the sergeant.
"A second-story man," answered the guard.
"He took to a cab," explained Tom, "and him and his partner give us a
fierce chase down the avenoo. O'Halloran shot the horse, and the cab was
all knocked to hell. The other fellow clawed out before we could nab
him. But we got this one all right."
"Hi, there, McCarthy!" shouted the sergeant to someone in the dim vast
beyond. "Come and open up." He examined McAllister with a degree of
interest. "Quite a swell guy!" he commented. "Them dress clothes must
have been real pretty onc't."
McAllister stood with soaked and rumpled hair, hatless and collarless,
his coat torn and splashed, and his shirt-bosom bloody and covered with
mud. He wanted to cry, for the first time in thirty-five years.
"Wot's yer name?" asked the sergeant.
The prisoner remained stiffly mute. He would have suffered anything
rather than disclose himself.
"Where do yer live?"
Still no answer. The sergeant gave vent to a grim laugh.
"Mum, eh?" He scribbled something in the blotter upon the desk before
him. Then he raised his eyes and scrutinized McAllister's face. Suddenly
he jumped to his feet.
[Illustration: "Do you know who you've caught?"]
"Well, of all the luck!" he exclaimed. "Do you know who you've caught?
It's Fatty Welch!"