“Well, it’s about time!” said Brad, as a policeman came up panting. “You’re rather late, officer.”
“What’s the matter here?” demanded the officer. “What are you doing with that pistol? What do you mean by firing a pistol? You’re both drunk! I think I’ll take you in.”
Dick gave his chum a whimsical look of disgust.
“What do you think of that, Brad?” he said. “He’s going to take us in. We get held up and nearly murdered, and after it’s all over a gallant policeman appears and arrests us.”
“What’s that you’re saying?” snapped the officer. “What kind of a fairy-story have you invented? You’re a couple of students, and I’m onto your game. You fellows are forever making trouble. Give me that pistol.”
“Sure,” growled Brad, handing over the weapon. “You’re welcome to it.”
“Perhaps you’d better take this knife, also, officer,” said Dick, picking up the knife and holding it out to the policeman. “You may find a little blood on the handle, and it strikes me that there’s a man’s finger lying there on the ground. Perhaps you’ll want that.”
The cop bent over and stared in amazement at the bloody human digit which lay on the ground.
“So help me, it’s a finger!” he gasped, as if unable to believe his eyes. “What’s it mean? How—why—when——”
“As long as you’re determined to arrest us,” said Dick, “we’ll explain to the sergeant at the station house. Of course, you won’t believe our fairy-story about a holdup.”