Now was his chance. With two of them, he knew he must act quickly, and “acting quickly” was only a mild expression for some of the Sergeant’s little methods in his business which, though invariably attended with excellent results, did not, sad to relate, always strictly conform to the rules laid down in that worthy little Manual issued to all members of the Force for their regimental and legal guidance.
With fell intention, he crossed over swiftly to the drunk. It was no time for niceties in the manner of arrest, for the man might arouse the neighborhood, and the Sergeant had reasons for not being particularly desirous of an audience just then.
With the deadly calculation of an ex-pugilist, he carefully judged his distance in the dim light and swung a single terrific right uppercut to the point of the chin. The head snapped back and, with a choking gasp, the man fell heavily to the ground in an inert heap.
At the smack and the thud of the falling body, Harry halted in the dark ahead.
“What’s up?” he growled. “Are yer all in?”
Ellis shouldered roughly into him and, with an oath, the man reeled back.
“Why, what’s this?” he blustered and, as the shadowy outline of Benton’s Stetson hat in the uncertain light penetrated his vision, “why, it’s the ‘cop’!”
“Yes,” said the Sergeant through his set teeth and, with suppressed fury, “I’ve got you now where I want you! I’ll give you call me ‘cop,’ you G—d—d, dirty pimp!” and he smashed in a vicious left drive, flush on Harry’s nose.
It was a staggering blow, and the blood squirted, but somehow the man kept his feet and threw himself into a fighting posture, like one accustomed to using his hands.
He was by far the heavier of the two, but his movements were slow and muscle-bound and the tigerishly vicious attack of the Sergeant, with all its concentrated hate and science behind it, paralyzed him. He tried to cover up, but those terrible punches with the giver’s vindictive “Oof—oof,” accompanying each blow, seemed to reach his body and face at will.