Fat Sarah loomed in the doorway, calling wild words. Now she was starting down the steps after Chub, wheezing and groaning and waving her pink-palmed black hands.
She was coming down the sidewalk! “Stop, thief! Robber! Help! Murder!”
Chub was glad that the street was deserted and that he was a good runner. He picked up the tweed skirt and went faster.
Black Sarah followed to the corner, but Chub was around it and down an alley by that time. He could outrun Sarah, even in a gunny sack, he was sure. Clutching the picture in one hand, the basket bouncing on his other arm, he trotted down the alleys parallel to Market Street. Suddenly his skirt seemed to be grabbing him about the ankles, getting longer and longer. He transferred the picture to his other hand, and felt at the back of the skirt. The pin was gone, and the skirt was coming off. Chub let it fall to the ground, stepping out of it as he ran, kicking it ahead with one foot and catching it up in his arms, without slacking his speed. He probably looked crazier than ever now, with his short knickers and that red blouse. Just before the last alley brought him to the bridge, where he would have to cross into Plainfield’s business section, he decided to discard his disguise right there. He peeled off the blouse, flipped off the glasses, and pulled off the hat. Then he squeezed everything into the basket. He put the picture inside, too, for safekeeping.
Chub was so elated over his success that he felt like racing when he came out on the street again. It was so good to be free of those cumbersome old clothes, too. At the bridge, he passed two men talking together.
“They’re saying up the street that the King home has just been robbed,” one of them said.
Chub shuddered as he hurried on. He supposed he was a thief. But he was merely borrowing the picture for the paper. He would have it back on the King fireplace, safe and sound, to-morrow. He’d take it back himself. No, maybe Sarah would recognize him even without his disguise and would wallop him with her mighty black arm. She was capable of anything. He’d send it back by a regular messenger.
“Yoo-whoo! Chub, wait!” He heard a call and looked back over his shoulder. Joan was coming toward him.
Hidden behind a tree, Joan had watched Chub’s encounter with Sarah, though she could not hear their conversation. When he had disappeared down an alley, she had started on back home, so she was surprised to see him hurrying along ahead of her when she reached the bridge. She knew he had the picture, for she had seen it in his hand when he emerged down the King steps, tripping over the tweed skirt. But he refused to show it to her until they reached her own yard, when he transferred the basket and its contents to her.