"Didn't—have—time. Here—gimme a leg over this fence, will you?"
"What the devil—!"
"They've got a door through to the next house—getting out that way. That's what I'm after—to stop 'em. Shut up!" P. Sybarite insisted savagely—"and give me a leg."
"Oh, well!" said one of the plain-clothes men in a slightly mollified voice—"if that's the way of it—all right."
"Come along, then," brusquely insisted the impostor, leading the way to the eastern wall of boards enclosing the back yard.
Curiously complaisant for one of his breed, the detective bent his back and made a stirrup of his clasped hands, but no sooner had P. Sybarite fitted foot to that same than the man started and, straightening up abruptly, threw him flat on his back.
"Patrolman, hell! Whatcha doin' in them pants and shoes if you're a patrol—"
"Hel-lo!" exclaimed the other indignantly. "Impersonatin' an officer—eh?"
With this he dived at P. Sybarite; who, having bounced up from a supine to a sitting position, promptly and peevishly swore, rolled to one side (barely eluding clutches that meant to him all those frightful and humiliating consequences that arrest means to the average man) and scrambled to his feet.
Immediately the others closed in upon him, supremely confident of overcoming by concerted action that smallish, pale, and terrified body. Whereupon P. Sybarite' stepped quickly to one side and, avoiding the rush of one, directly engaged the other. Ducking beneath a windmill play of arms, he shot an accurate fist at this aggressor's jaw; there was a click of teeth, the man's head snapped back, and folding up like a tripod, he subsided at length.