Phelan threw up his hands with a groan.
“An’ did yez take him to the station?”
“How could I?” chuckled Gladwin. “I didn’t know where it was––that is, your station––so I told him most any would do. We rode about a bit and as he didn’t seem anxious to be locked up, I compromised for fifty dollars. It was really quite simple, Phelan, and if I’d only had more time I might have got back that five hundred.”
“GIVE ME ME UNIFORM AN’ LET ME GIT OUT OF HERE.”
“You’ve lost me me job––that’s what you’ve done!” moaned Phelan, while his brain reeled with pictures of police headquarters, trial rooms and ruthless commissioners. “Come, give me me uniform,” he cried, with a sudden accession of passion.
“What’s that?” asked the young man, quickly, his grin vanishing.
“Me uniform!” rasped Phelan, with a rush toward the young man. “Give me me uniform an’ let me git out of here.”