“I don’t see how I can,” answered Joe. “My train leaves in five minutes.”
“Never mind the charge,” broke in a new voice. “I know this duck and I’ll look after him. On your feet, Clancey!”
A clean-shaven, lean-jawed man had pushed his way through the crowd, and now he gripped the thief’s coat lapels and fairly lifted him to his feet.
“Detective,” whispered a man behind Martin.
“This guy’s wanted,” continued the newcomer. “Stand up, you’re all right, ‘Spike.’ Put up your hands.” The captive, finding that playing possum would not do, obeyed meekly and the detective ran quick and practised fingers over him. Then a pair of handcuffs were slipped onto the man’s wrists and he was being whisked through the throng.
“Here’s your pocketbook, young man,” said the policeman importantly. “You’d not have it saving this feller here.” He indicated the boy whose football tactics had ended the chase and who, hemmed in by the crowd, was now striving to get away. “Better see if the contents is correct.”
Joe had tried to express gratitude to the other boy, examine his pocketbook and listen to the low-voiced urging of Martin all at the same time, with the result that he was decidedly incoherent and confused. Martin was tugging at his arm and telling him that they had but five minutes to get the train. The policeman came to his rescue.
“Move on now! Move on!” he commanded sternly, pushing right and left. “Stop blocking up this passage!”
The throng dissolved almost as quickly as it had formed. Somehow, Joe and Martin, hurrying back to where Bob had returned to guard the suitcases, found themselves close to the boy who had made the capture. He had rescued his luggage, a large kit-bag, from a bystander and, too, was seeking the ticket window.
“I’m much obliged to you,” said Joe. “I guess he’d have got away if you hadn’t stopped him.”