“I’ve taken it out of Pick,” and he stopped short. “I got my two hundred francs worth,” the artist of the London Mirror proceeded, “and now I shall feel bound to return you yours—the first time I have it,” he ended, vaguely.
Braith made an impatient gesture.
“Are you under arrest?”
“Yes, I am. He couldn’t help it,” smiling agreeably at the Sergeant de Ville. “He saw me hit him.”
The policeman looked stolid.
“But what excuse?” began Braith.
“Oh! none! Pick just passed me, and I felt as if I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I pitched in.”
“Well, and now you’re in for fine and imprisonment.”
“I suppose so,” said Bulfinch, beaming.
“Have you any money with you?”