Bob was about to answer in the affirmative when a sudden shout from the ticket window interrupted and both boys looked across in time to see Joe clutch unsuccessfully at the arm of a man who, swinging away from the window, now started to run fast toward the nearest exit. Perhaps Bob or Martin, had he sensed instantly what was happening, might have intercepted the man, but he had a good start before either of them realized that the black object he slipped into a pocket as he ran was Joe’s wallet, and so it was Joe himself who led the evidently futile chase, Joe shouting “Stop him! Stop him!” most lustily. Abandoning suitcases, Bob and Martin dashed after.
The thief showed skill born of experience as he dodged his way toward the door, avoiding a stout lady with two small children in tow one instant and side-stepping a bundle-laden messenger boy the next and scarcely lessening his speed. Joe had poorer luck, however, for, although he got safely past the stout lady by a miracle of dexterity, he came a cropper a stride beyond and went down in a shower of parcels!
By now the waiting-room was in wild confusion. Cries of “Thief! Thief!” filled the air; those about the entrance were trying hard to get out of the way and those at a distance were striving madly to reach the scene. Station policemen hurriedly joined the pursuit, but their quarry was already on the threshold of freedom when a new actor made his appearance in the drama. Just as the thief swung toward the doors something shot through space, there was a crashing thud, a surprised grunt and the chase was over!
A boy of seventeen unwrapped his arms from the legs of the motionless form on the floor, arose to his feet, dusted his clothes and looked somewhat embarrassedly into the faces of the throng that had already surrounded him. A gray-coated officer pushed his way into the center of the circle, gave a quick, inquiring glance at the boy and leaned over the figure on the floor.
“He’s all right. Hit his head when he went down. Give a hand with him, Conlon, and we’ll get him to one side. You come along, sir, till I get the rights of it.” A brother policeman aiding, the thief, now showing signs of consciousness, was lifted to one side of the entrance. By that time Joe and his companions had worked their way to the front and Joe quickly told his story.
“Grabbed your pocketbook, did he?” asked the first policeman. “Let’s see has he got it. Sure, he has! Is this it? Hold on now, not so fast! What’s your name?”
Martin whispered swiftly in Joe’s ear, “Myers Joseph,” answered Joe after a brief hesitation.
“And where do you live?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia, eh? What about making a charge against this feller?”