"Nothing so foolish as that." P. Sybarite handed over the two bills and put away the rest of his wealth. "Just jump into that car and be ready to swing across the street and block 'em as they come."
"You're on!" agreed the chauffeur with emotion—carefully putting his money away.
"And a thousand more"—his courage wrung this tribute from P. Sybarite's admiration—"if you're hurt—"
"You're on there, too—and don't think for a minute I'll letcha fergit, neither."
The chauffeur turned to his car, jumped into the driver's seat, and advanced the spark. The purr of the motor deepened to a leonine growl.
"Hello!" he exclaimed in surprise, real or feigned, to see P. Sybarite take the seat by his side. "What t'ell? Who's payin' you to be a God-forsaken ass?"
"Did you think I'd ask you to run a risk that frightened me?"
"Dunno's I thought much about it, but 'f yuh wanta know what I think now, I think you oughta get a rebate outa whatcha give me—if you live to apply for it. And I don't mind tellin' you, if you do, you won't get it."
Again the spiteful drumming of the automatic: P. Sybarite swung round in time to see one of the plain-clothes men return the fire with several brisk shots, then abruptly drop his revolver, clap a hand to his bosom, wheel about-face, and fall prone.
A cry shrilled up from the bystanders, only to be drowned out by another, but fortunately more harmless, fusillade from the garage.