"Oh, chuck it!" remarked the other.
Again the Russian gazed at the unexpected little phenomenon, and his voice rumbled:
"What is that—'chuck it'?"
Suddenly the Frenchman snatched Janoc's paper neatly with thumb and finger out of the Russian's hand, and ran chuckling across Charing Cross Road eastward. The Russian, with a grunt of rage, made after him with his long legs. But, from the first, he saw that he was being left behind by the nimble pace set up by a good runner. He seemed to understand that a miracle was needed, and lo, it occurred, for, as the two crossed the road in front of the Palace Theater, the Russian lifted his voice into:
"Stop him! Stop thief! Police! Police!"
Not only did he yell in most lucid English, but he also plucked a police whistle from his coat and blew it loudly.
No policeman happened to be near, however, and the deep sleep of London echoed their pelting steps eastward, until the Russian saw the paper-snatcher vanish from sight in the congeries of streets that converge on the top of St. Martin's Lane.
He lost hope then, and slackened a little, panting but swearing in a language that would be appreciated by any London cabman. Nevertheless, when he, too, ran into St. Martin's Lane, there was the small Frenchman, standing, wiping his forehead, awaiting him.
The Russian sprang at him.
"You little whelp!" he roared. "I arrest you——"