Part 37 (2/2)
”Fer the love o' hivin,” he cried, ”give me me uniform and let me out o' here.”
”Here's your uniform; I've had enough of it,” replied Gladwin, throwing him the coat and cap, ”and get into it quick. There's work for you right in this house.”
”There is not, nor play neither,” snapped Phelan. ”I've got to go out and chase up a drunk or throw a faint or git run over or somethin'
desperate to square mesilf with the captain. I'm an hour overdue at the station.”
”You'll square yourself with the captain all right if you just do what I tell you,” said Gladwin eagerly, helping him on with his coat and pus.h.i.+ng him toward the window recess. ”You go right in there behind those curtains and wait till I call you.”
Phelan took one look at the young man's face and muttered as he obeyed. ”This must be a h.e.l.l of a joke.”
And just then the thief breezed in again, jerking back on his heels as he caught sight of Gladwin _sans_ uniform, _sans_ moustache and _sans_ eyebrows. But a glance at that young man meant volumes and there was no limit to his spontaneous resources. He summoned a laugh and jerked out:
”Oh, so you've resigned from the force?”
”Yes,” retorted Gladwin, ”and let me tell you that this little excursion of yours has gone far enough. I'll give you one chance--get away from here as quickly as you can.”
The big fellow curled one corner of his lip in a contemptuous smile, then glanced about him quickly and asked:
”Where's the young lady?”
”Never mind the young lady,” Gladwin flung back at him. ”It was only on her account that I let you go as far as this. Now get out and keep away from that young lady--and drop my name.”
The sneering smile returned and balancing himself easily as he looked down on Gladwin, he said:
”Easy, son--easy. I don't like to have little boys talk to me like that,” and turning to the doorway behind him he beckoned. The obedient Watkins sidled in and stopped with head averted from Gladwin, who started with surprise at seeing him.
Stepping forward and making sure there could be no mistake, Gladwin turned to the thief and exclaimed:
”Oh, now I understand how you knew all about my house. This is what I get for not sending this man to jail where he belonged.”
”Don't bother with him, Watkins,” snarled the big fellow, as he noted his companion's complexion run through three shades of yellow.
”There's no time to bother with him,” he went on, and reaching out he caught Travers Gladwin by the shoulder and whirled him half way across the room.
The young man spun half a dozen times as he reeled across the carpet and he had to use both hands to stop himself against a big onyx table.
As he pulled himself up standing he saw that Watkins had lifted the trunk on his shoulders and was headed for the hallway.
”Phelan!” he gasped out. ”Here, quick!”
Officer 666 came out with the snort and rush of a bull.
”Stop that man,” cried the thief, pointing to Watkins, ”he's trying to get out of here with a trunkful of pictures.”
The man's hair-trigger mind had thought this out before Phelan was half way round the table. One lightning glance at the thickness of the patrolman's neck and the general contour of his rubicund countenance had translated to him the sort of man he had to deal with.
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