"What's wrong, ma'am?" asked the bluecoat.
The woman pointed a wobbly and fat forefinger at Lad, who had taken up his westward journey again and was halfway across the street.
"Mad dog!" she sputtered, hysterically. "He—he bit me! Bit at me, anyhow!"
Without waiting to hear the last qualifying sentence, the patrolman gave chase. Here was a chance for honorable blotter-mention at the very least. As he ran he drew his pistol.
Lad had reached the westward pavement of Amsterdam Avenue and was in the side street beyond. He was not hurrying, but his short wolf-trot ate up ground in deceptively quick time.
By the time the policeman had reached the west corner of street and avenue the dog was nearly a half-block ahead. The officer, still running, leveled his pistol and fired.
Now, anyone (but a very newly-appointed patrolman or a movie-hero) knows that to fire a shot when running is worse than fatal to any chance of accuracy. No marksman—no one who has the remotest knowledge of marksmanship—will do such a thing. The very best pistol-expert cannot hope to hit his target if he is joggling his own arm and his whole body by the motion of running.
The bullet flew high and to the right, smashing a second-story window and making the echoes resound deafeningly through the narrow street.
"What's up?" excitedly asked a boy, who stood beside a barrel bonfire with a group of chums.
"Mad dog!" puffed the policeman as he sped past.