Burnett scrambled out, over the coping and down the ladder, Crabb almost on his fingers. But they reached the yard in safety and were out in the alley running in the shadow of the fence before a venturesome head stuck forth from the open window and a revolver blazed into the vacant air.
“The devil!” said Crabb. “They’ll have every copper in the city on us in a minute. This way.” He turned into a narrow alley at right angles to the other. “Off with the coat as you go—now, the mustache and grease paint. Take your time. Into this sewer with the coats. So!”
Two gentlemen in light topcoats, one in a cap, the other in a hat, walked up N street arm in arm, thickly singing. Their shirt fronts and hair were rumpled, their legs were not too steady, and they clung affectionately to each other for support and sang thickly.
A window flew up and a tousled head appeared.
“Hey!” yelled a voice. “Burglars in the alley!”
“Burglars!” said one of the singers; and then: “Go to bed. You’re drunk.”
More sounds of windows, the blowing of night whistles and hurrying feet.
Still the revelers sang on.
A stout policeman, clamorous and bellicose, broke in.