“All pictures––thieves––steal ladies!” was Bateato’s second instalment, and the captain and lieutenant looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Big much pleece!” shrieked Bateato, made some more motions with his hands and rushed out into the street.
“It’s Jap whiskey,” said the captain, musingly, utterly unimpressed. “He isn’t crazy. That Jap whiskey’s awful stuff. They licked the Russian army on it. He’ll run it off. If you ever see a Jap runnin’ you’ll know what’s the matter.”
Bateato ran a block and then stopped.
“Hell damn!” he exploded. “I no tell where house.”
He ran back to the station and burst in again with even more precipitation.
“I no tell house,” he rattled off. “Mr. Gladwin––Travers Gladwin. Big lot white house––Fifth avenue––eighty, eighty, eighty. Quick––thieves––ladies!” and he was gone again before Captain Stone could remove his cigar from his face.
The captain looked at the lieutenant and the lieutenant looked at the captain.
“Maybe he ain’t drunk, Captain,” ventured the lieutenant. “There’s that Gladwin house on the books. It’s marked closed and there’s a note about a million-dollar collection of paintings.”