“Look here, you are not getting anywhere, man. You are only riding around and around, making a show of yourself, and there’s your nice daughter waiting for you.”
“It’s no place for a daughter—going where I’m going. Daughter ought to be in bed.” And then he braced himself back still farther, and—well, I suppose I’ll have to call it “singing” in order to describe the sound:=
````"I’m bound for the foot of Telegraph Hill,
`````To the Barbary Coast so gay.
````I’m starting there for a peach of a tear—fill
`````’Em up all round—hooray!”=
I took hold of his arm once more, and it was some arm.
“Look here,” he snarled, squinting at me, “I don’t know who you are, but I’ll let you know who I am blamed quick.”
I don’t know just what he might have done to me if he had been sober—but he wasn’t sober. I was, and my line of work had made me lithe and quick. I snapped my man before he had time to open his mouth, and ran him off that turn-table and presented him to his daughter with my compliments. He kicked and thrashed around in a logy style, and I kept him circling so that he could not get foothold, on the same principle that you keep a boa-constrictor from hooking his tail around a tree.
“Where will you have him delivered, miss?” I asked, as politely as I could.