“Oh, don’t! Wait! wait a minute!” cried the other, aghast at such recklessness.
Blue halted. “What yer want?”
“Why, I tell yer, ther’ ’s goin’ to be a big fight!”
“A fight! Not much! There’s Tom Fitzpatrick down there—ain’t it? Looks like him. Guess ther’ won’t be many shiners where he is!”
“Huh! what can one cop do alone! Ther’ ain’t another anywheres, an’, I tell yer, he’s got his hands full!”
“He can bring ’em easy enough with his whistle. He told me how—”
“Aw! he dassent blow it in face o’ that mob! Why, they’d knock him down quicker! Bet they’ll kill him anyway!—Oh, don’t yer!”
But Blue was flying towards the tumult, and Rob, with one glance at the on-coming rabble, fled in the opposite direction.
Tom Fitzpatrick in danger! The thought gave speed to Blue’s feet. As he drew nearer, he could hear the rich voice, rising above the rest, but calm and steady, not a bit as if its owner were afraid of those angry men.
“Don’t you know you mustn’t carry that?” he was saying. And thrusting at a red flag, he grabbed and furled it.