“It’s a grand night, all right; for ducks!” he amended. “You’re no has-been, Mac, from what the boys tell me of the different cases you’ve taken a hand in on the quiet since you resigned from the Department, but you needn’t give me the laugh for looking you over just now! You know this neighborhood as well as me, and when I see a guy trailing a prosperous looking drunk towards the riverfront and the wharves it’s up to me—”
“‘Drunk,’ is it?” McCarty demanded in fine scorn. Then he checked himself and added with a sweeping gesture toward the greenish glow from twin lights across the street: “I was minded to take a stroll through my own old beat and drop in at the house over there for a word or two with you and the Lieutenant at the desk, when I saw the guy ahead—but where is he? He couldn’t have got in one of the warehouses at this time of the evening and there’s nothing else between here and the corner—?”
“Aw, let him go!” Officer Keenan interrupted good-naturedly. “Honest, Mac, I ain’t got the heart to run them in these days, when the stuff is so hard to get, and all—!”
But McCarty was not listening. Forgotten alike were the bedraggled derby and the affluent private life of which it had so lately been sign and symbol; he was back on his old beat with something doing, and he grabbed his brother officer by the arm.
“What’s that there beyond the lamp-post, half in and half out of the gutter? It’s him, Terry, he’s down!—Come on!”
Terry needed no second bidding now. Together they ran, splashing through puddles and over the loose, tilting fragments of pavement to where the man lay. He had pitched forward, his face hanging over the curb’s edge, down into the swirling gutter. The back of his head showed a bald spot gleaming in the misty rays from the lamp.
“There’s some heft to him!” Terry grunted. “Now I’ll have to run him in for safe-keeping. What’s that he’s jabbering, Mac?”
Between them they had turned the prostrate man, who was breathing stertorously and muttering to himself in broken gasps. The young policeman’s flashlight revealed a heavy, smooth-shaven face, distorted and pasty gray beneath the rivulets of muddy water that coursed down it, with small, close-set eyes darting about in a wild, distended gaze.
McCarty bent lower in an effort to distinguish the hoarse accents. His companion commented disgustedly:
“He’s worse than I thought he was! Look at the rolling eyes of him! It’ll be Bellevue, I’m thinking—”