The policeman turned to Fleming.
“Beat it,” he commanded briefly. “You’re blocking up the sidewalk.”
Fleming bristled up like a turkey cock.
“I’ll have your number,” he said importantly. “I’ll——”
“G’wan,” broke in the officer, “or I’ll fan you. Don’t make me tell you twice.”
He emphasized the command by a poke in the back with his club that took away the last shred of Fleming’s dignity, and he retreated, with one last malignant look at Joe.
“I know his kind,” said the officer, complacently. “One of them rich papa’s boys with more money than brains. Sorry he bothered you, Mr. Matson. Are youse boys goin’ to lick them Bostons?”
“We’re going to make a try at it,” laughed Joe.
“You will if you can pitch all the games,” rejoined the policeman, admiringly. “It cert’nly was a sin an’ a shame the way you trimmed them Chicagos. You own New York to-day, Mr. Matson.”