“Having an acute attack of heart trouble, if you want to know,” said the sergeant, staring after the little car.
“Have to arrest you.”
“Oh, go to it!” said the sergeant blithely. “I’m used to it now. Look here,” he added, “your name’s not Joe, by any chance?”
“You know my name,” said the M. P. sourly.
“Sorry,” reflected the sergeant. “Don’t mind if I call you Joe, do you? Always like the men who arrest me to be called Joe. It’s lucky.”
He stopped and looked back; the little car was almost out of sight.
“All right, Joe, old top!” he said blithely. And he sang in a deep bass
“Where do we go from here, boys?
Where do we go from here?
All the way from Broadway to the Jersey City pier.”