In a moment the broad man had thrown himself upon Sheeny Joe.
“Call the police!” he yelled. “He's got my pocket-book!”
The officer pulled him off Sheeny Joe, whom he had thrown to the ground and now clung to with the desperation of the robbed.
“Give me a look in!” said the officer, thrusting the broad man aside. “If he's got your leather we'll find it.”
Sheeny Joe was breathless with the surprise and fury of the broad man's descent upon him. The officer ran his hand over the outside of Sheeny Joe's coat, holding him meanwhile fast by the collar. Then he slipped his hand inside, and drew forth a chubby pocketbook.
“That's it!” screamed the broad man, “that's my wallet with over six hundred dollars in it! The fellow stole it!”
“It's a plant!” gasped Sheeny Joe, his face like ashes. Then to the crowd: “Will somebody go fetch Big John Kennedy? He knows me; he'll say I'm square!”
Big Kennedy arrived at the station as the officer, whose journey was slow because of the throng, came in with Sheeny Joe. Big Kennedy heard the stories of the officer and the broad man with all imaginable patience. Then a deep frown began to knot his brow. He waved Sheeny Joe aside with a gesture that told of virtuous indignation.
“Lock him up!” cried Big Kennedy. “If he'd slugged somebody, even if he'd croaked him, I'd have stuck to him till th' pen'tentiary doors pinched my fingers. But I've no use for a crook. Sing Sing's th' place for him! It's just such fine workers as him who disgrace th' name of Tammany Hall. They lift a leather, an' they make Tammany a cover for th' play.”
“Are you goin' back on me?” wailed Sheeny Joe.