That was true. They were—and before the door of their jail.
CHAPTER XVIII—TOO READY RESCUE
Before the desk sergeant of a metropolitan police station friendship usually ceases. It did tonight in the Arsenal, otherwise the 33rd Precinct. By not so much as the ghost of a grin could the be-mustached official in a uniform striped by decades of service have detected even a speaking acquaintance between captors and prisoners.
The “case” was Pudge O’Shay’s and he made the arraignment, Moore having subsided into a wooden arm-chair tilted against the wall.
“These are the grub worms that the ’phone message was about,” announced the sparrow cop.
“Mind telling me who sent in that get-your-gun alarm?” Pape asked with a naïveté that masked the effrontery of his request.
The sergeant stared at him in amazement. “None of your business, you human mole.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” was his easy-manner counter. “A sharp-faced little crook named Swinton Welch.”
“Easy there with the hard names, young fellow! Swin Welch is a friend of mine and no person’s going to call him a crook to my face, much less a prisoner.”
“Thought so,” said Pape with a grin. “If he ain’t a crook, how about the folks he’s working for?”