"That's polite enough," said one of the reporters, making a note of it.
But Mr. MacAckus said:
"Why, you infernal--"
"_Move on!_" said the cop.
"I am Mr. MacAckus, of Valiquet's--"
"Tell him who you are, officer," said the diabolic Onthemaker, guessing
the cop's nationality.
"I am Mr. McGinnis, of the thirty-first precinct."
People began to clap their hands--people who never went into Valiquet's.
Mr. McGinnis thereupon laid a hand proudly on Mr. MacAckus's arm.
Mr. MacAckus lost his head; that is, he shook off the white-gloved hand
of the law.
The law blew its whistle, as the law always does in civilized
communities.
Instantly, as though the whistle had been the cue, the stirring sound
of galloping steeds smote the asphalt of Fifth Avenue.
"Let him go, Officer McGinnis," said Max Onthemaker, magnanimously. "We
do not care to appear against him."
"Ain't he fine-looking?" a woman asked her companion, looking at the
law. She even pointed at him.