The two men took to their heels. The avengers of the goddess pursued.
“Oh, Lordy!” groaned the reporter, “there isn’t a cow this side of Brooklyn. We’re lost!”
When near the corner they both fell over an iron object that rose from the sidewalk close to the gutter. Clinging to it desperately, they awaited their fate.
“If I only had a cow!” moaned the reporter—“or another nip from that decanter, General!”
As soon as the pursuers observed where their victims had found refuge they suddenly fell back and retreated to a considerable distance.
“They are waiting for reinforcements in order to attack us,” said General Ludlow.
But the reporter emitted a ringing laugh, and hurled his hat triumphantly into the air.
“Guess again,” he shouted, and leaned heavily upon the iron object. “Your old fancy guys or thugs, whatever you call ’em, are up to date. Dear General, this is a pump we’ve stranded upon—same as a cow in New York (hic!) see? Thas’h why the ’nfuriated smoked guys don’t attack us—see? Sacred an’mal, the pump in N’ York, my dear General!”
But further down in the shadows of Twenty-eighth Street the marauders were holding a parley.
“Come on, Reddy,” said one. “Let’s go frisk the old ’un. He’s been showin’ a sparkler as big as a hen egg all around Eighth Avenue for two weeks past.”