"Guess you 're right," mumbled the other thickly, shrugging out of his coat and surrendering it.
Several white jackets hung from hooks on the wall near the door. Seizing one of these, the policeman had it on in a jiffy.
"Now what'll I do?" he pursued, as P. Sybarite, the blue coat over his arm, grabbed the police cap and started for the door.
"Do? How do I know? Use your own head for a while. Pull yourself together—cut some bread—do something useful—make a noise like a steward—"
With this the little man shot out into the hallway, slammed the door behind him, and darted into the adjoining bedroom. Once there, he lost no time changing coats—not forgetting to shift his money as well—cocked the cap jauntily on one side of his head (a bit too big, it fitted better that way, anyhow) buttoned up, and left the room on the run. For by this time the front doors had fallen in and the upper floor was echoing with deep, excited voices and heavy, hurrying footsteps. In another moment or so they would be drawing the basement for fugitives.
He had planned—vaguely, inconclusively—to leave by the area door when the raiders turned their attention to the basement, presenting himself to the crowd in the street in the guise of an officer, and so make off. But now—with his fingers on the bolts—misgivings assailed him. He was physically not much like any policeman he had ever seen; and the blue tunic with its brass buttons was a wretched misfit on his slight body. He doubted whether his disguise would pass unchallenged—doubted so strongly that he doubled suddenly to the back door, flung it open, and threw himself out into the black strangeness of the night—and at the same time into the arms of two burly plain-clothes men posted there to forestall precisely such an attempt at escape.
Strong arms clipping him, he struggled violently for an instant.
"Here!" a voice warned him roughly. "It ain't goin' to do you no good—"
Another interrupted with an accent of deep disgust, in patent recognition of his borrowed plumage: "Damned if it ain't a patrolman!"
"Why the hell didn't you say so?" demanded the first as P. Sybarite fell back, free.