"Oh, you go to—Brooklyn!" snarled Foxy. "For two pins I'd knock your block off, you fat-headed Irish fool! Think I'm going down to the sidewalk without my clothes?"
"Are your clothes somewhere in this building?" I asked with some sympathy.
He whirled on me sneeringly and jeered like a jolly screech owl:
"Oh, no; not exactly in the building—they're on the flagpole on the roof, of course! He-he-he! Bloody good joke, isn't it?"
I sat on the edge of the table wearily; and, catching the policeman's eye, shrugged my shoulders significantly.
"You're right, sir," he said apologetically. "We won't fool a second longer. Here, you take that side, Tim. Let's pull!"
And they did pull, but, by Jove, they couldn't raise him.
"Queerest go I ever see," Tim gasped. "He ain't holding on to nothing, is he? And, O'Keefe, he feels big!"
"Pshaw, it's not that," the other panted; "it's just the way he's sitting. Why, you can see he ain't so very big." He nodded to Jenkins and the janitor. "Here, you two! Help us, can't you?"
And with one mighty, united heave, they brought the loudly protesting old man to his feet and held him there. O'Keefe faced me.