Suddenly Larry slipped and fell upon one knee; Foley made a quick, wicked kick at his side, and the next instant was thrown against the wall by the force of a smashing blow from McGonagle. Mike McCarty was staring eagerly into Daily’s face, his body quivering like that of a crouching cat, when the officers arrived.
“Fire ’em out,” commanded McGonagle. “Fire the t’ree o’ them!”
The offenders were promptly hustled down the stairs and out upon the sidewalk. A light rain was falling; the arc lamps sputtered and hissed in the silence. A form wrapped in a blue mackintosh, and holding an umbrella, was standing upon the steps.
“Here he is,” laughed the policeman who held Martin; “and I didn’t have to tell him he was wanted, either.”
The three ejected ones stared curiously at the woman; and the policeman laughed again and closed the door.
“Mart,” said the woman, “I want to talk to you.”
“Who’s yer friend,” snickered Foley.
“Give us a knockdown,” said Daily.
“Oh, hell!” Martin’s tone was one of deep disgust and he waved his hand in a bored fashion.
“Le’s go have somethin’, then,” suggested Daily, “don’t stand here in the damp.”