“Screw out!” cried he, to the reputable old gentleman. “We don't want any of your talk!” Then to an officer in the station: “Put him out!”
“I'm a taxpayer!” shouted the reputable old gentleman furiously.
“You'll pay a fine,” responded the captain with a laugh, “if you kick up a row 'round my station. Now screw out, or I'll put you the wrong side of the grate.”
The reputable old gentleman was thrust into the street with about as much ceremony as might attend the delivery of a bale of goods at one's door. He disappeared, declaring he would have justice; at which a smile widened the faces of the sophisticated officers, several of whom were lounging about the room.
“He'll have justice!” repeated the captain with a chuckle. “Say! he aought to put that in the Joe Miller Joke-book.” Then to the red-faced man, who still leaned against the desk, the image of autocracy sure of itself: “What is it to be, Mr. Kennedy?”
“Why,” quoth the red-faced one, “you must lock this boy up. Yes, an' the girl, too; she had better go in for the night. I'll take a look into th' business, an' let the judge know in the mornin'.”
“I don't think, captain,” interposed the officer who brought us from the docks, “there's any use locking up these people. It was nothin' but a cheap muss on the pier.”
“Say! I don't stand that!” broke in Sheeny Joe. “This party smashed me with a bar of iron. The girl was in the play; an' I say they're both to go in.”
“You 'say,'” mocked the captain, in high scorn. “An' who are you? Who is this fellow?” he demanded, looking about him.
“He's one of my people,” said the red-faced man, still coolly by the desk.