“I’ll have to be getting back,” he said to himself, and was on the point of returning when he saw that which surprised him greatly. A cab whirled past the corner upon which he was standing, and on the back seat he recognized Mr. Wakefield Smith.
The pickpocket was alone, and ere Jerry could stop him the cab rolled down the side street out of hearing.
Our hero did not stop long to consider what was best to do, but took to his heels and followed the cab as best he could.
The cab gained a distance of nearly two blocks, and Jerry was almost on the point of giving up, when it came to a halt in front of what looked like a private club-house. Wakefield Smith alighted and paid the cabman, who went about his business without delay.
“Stop there!” cried Jerry to the pickpocket, as the man mounted the steps of the house. But whether the man heard our hero or not, he paid no attention. When Jerry reached the spot he was standing on a low porch.
“Did you hear me?” went on Jerry, and, to prevent Smith from entering the place, our hero caught him by the button of his coat.
To Jerry surprise, the rascal offered no resistance. Instead, he came down the steps backward, and fell on his back on the sidewalk, his hat rolling toward the gutter.
“Shay, waz you do that fer?” he hiccoughed.
Jerry gazed at the pickpocket in wonder. Then the truth flashed over our hero. The man who had robbed him was beastly intoxicated.
