“Pwhat’s this, Oi dunno?” he exclaimed, bursting through the crowd and halting so suddenly that he nearly fell over himself when he saw Bruce. “An’ now will yez be afther tellin’ me pwhat ye’re doin’ there?”
Browning made no reply, but gravely pulled up his line, looked at the hook, as if to ascertain the condition of the bait, and again made a cast into the street.
The little Irishman grew red in the face.
“Look here, me foine b’y!” he cried, flourishing his stick; “it’s the magisty av th’ law Oi ripresint, an’ Oi do be afther axin’ ye a quistion. Pwhat are yez doin’ there, Oi want to know?”
Bruce remained silent.
The spectators looked on with interest, wondering what the outcome would be.
The policeman came a bit nearer Bruce, and again shook his stick, crying:
“Is it a lunathick ye are? It’s a foine spictacle ye do be afther makin’ av yersilf. Av ye don’t belave it, jist shtep over this way an’ take a look at yersilf a-sittin’ on thot stool loike a frog on a log. Get down now, ur Oi’ll plaze ye under arrist!”
Browning did not heed.
“It’s me duty Oi’ll have to do,” declared the officer, as he advanced on the big fellow; “an’ av ye resist me, Oi’ll have to club th’ loife out av yez. It’s a lunathick ye are, an’ Oi know it. Come along now, to th’ station house.”