Bob paused at the starting-point and wheezed: "Bravo! You done noble, Nobel. We've learned some new steps, too, eh?" All power of resistance had left the victim, who seemed upon the verge of collapse. "I say we've learned some new steps; haven't we, Bergy?" He tweaked the distorted member in his grasp, and Bergman's head wagged loosely.
A late diner cruised uncertainly down the street, and, sensing the unusual, paused, rocking in his tracks.
"Whash trouble? Shome fightin' goin' on?" he inquired, brightly.
"Oh, please—please—" Lorelei cried, tremulously. "Don't—"
"Canter for the kind lady," Wharton insisted. "Come on." He began to lift and lower his shoulders in imitation of a rider. Bergman capered awkwardly. "Once more."
"Fine!" shouted the drunken spectator, clapping his hands loosely.
"Tha's bully. Now make 'im shingle-foot."
"Single-foot? Certainly. He's park gaited."
"Mr. Wharton! BOB—" Lorelei's agonized entreaty brought her admirer to the cab door, but he fetched his prisoner in tow. "Let him go or—we'll all be arrested."
"Want see 'im shingle-foot," eagerly importuned the stranger.
"I'll take off his bridle if you insist. But it's a grand nose. I—love it. Never was there such a nose."