McFaddan interrupted him just in time to avoid additional ignominy.
"What the hell do you guys mean by buttin' in here?" he roared, his face brick-red with anger.
"Cut that out," snarled the burly one. "You'll mighty soon see what we mean by—"
"Beat it. Clear out!" shouted McFaddan.
"Smash the door down," shouted the young man in full evening dress.
"Oh, my God!" gasped McFaddan, his eyes almost popping from his head. He had recognized the speaker.
By singular coincidence all three of the men outside the gate recognized Mr. Cornelius McFaddan at the same time.
"Holy mackerel!" gasped the burly one, grabbing for his cap. "It's—it's Mr. McFaddan or I'm a goat."
"You're a goat all right," declared McFaddan in a voice that shook all the confidence out of both policemen and caused Mr. Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis to back sharply toward the steps leading to the street. "Where's Julia?" roared the district boss, glaring balefully at Stuyvie. "Get the key, Cricklewick,—quick. Let me out of here. I'll never have another chance like this. The dirty—"
"Calm yourself, McFaddan," pleaded Cricklewick. "Remember where you are—and who is upstairs. We can't have a row, you know. It—"