"I forgot all about it," confesses Appleboy.
"Silas!" cries his wife. "I should think that after all your experiences you would have had sense enough not to leave the Criminal Courts building without bringing that teapot with you. How do you know Maria hasn't taken it with her to Ireland?"
"Oh, I'm sure she hasn't," answers her husband; "it's down at the police station; they tagged it, you know, and left it in the custody of the sergeant."
"Well, hurry through your dinner," commands his wife, "and go right down and get it. I am surprised at you."
Appleboy skips his usual demi-tasse and fragrant perfecto, the result of which omission is to leave him but half satisfied and with a feeling of incipient indigestion, and betakes himself as fast as possible to the police station, where he has last seen the teapot. Now the police station, as is a way with police stations, is located without any reference whatever to the conveniences of transportation, hence Vestryman Appleboy is obliged to walk some ten or twelve blocks towards the river after a heavy meal, and reaches his destination very much out of breath and in a distinctly ill humor. To his surprise the doorkeeper at once recalls him.
"How are you, Mr. Appleboy? Come right in," says that functionary in greeting.
"How do you do?" responds Appleboy. "I have come to get my teapot."
"Ask the sergeant about it," directs the doorman.
So Appleboy makes his way to the desk, where he is again recognized, this time by the sergeant on duty.
"Well, Mr. Appleboy," remarks the sergeant, "what became of that cook of yours? She was a bad one! I hope they convicted her."