With an inarticulate roar, the patrolman swung on toward the gangster—and P. Sybarite plucked the boy by the sleeve and drew him quickly to the sidewalk.
By the never-to-be-forgotten grace of Kismet his taxicab was precisely where he had left it, the chauffeur on the seat.
"Quick!" he ordered the reeling boy—"into that cab unless you want to be treated by a Bellevue sawbones—held as a witness besides. Are you badly hurt?"
"Not badly," gasped the boy—"shot through the shoulder—can wait for treatment—must keep out of the papers—"
"Right!" P. Sybarite jerked open the door, and his charge stumbled into the cab. "Drive anywhere—like sin," he told the chauffeur—"tell you where to stop when we get clear of this mess—"
Privately he blessed that man; for the cab was in motion almost before he could swing clear of the sidewalk. He tumbled in upon the floor, and picked himself up in time to close the door only when they were swinging on two wheels round the corner of Seventh Avenue.
SUCH STUFF AS PLOTS ARE MADE OF
"How is it?" P. Sybarite asked solicitously.
"Aches," replied the boy huddled in his corner of the cab.