"Wha-a-at?" snarls the copper. "Say, you old billy-goat, beat it!" And he proceeds to clip young Mr. Hollister a glancin' blow on the side of the bead. His next aim was better; but this time the nightstick didn't connect.
There's been let loose a weird, high-pitched howl, which I didn't recognize at the time as the old Rebel yell, but know now that it was. Uncle Noah had gone into action. That walkin' stick of his was a second-growth hickory club as thick as your wrist at the big end. He swung it quick and accurate, and if that cop ain't nursin' a broken forearm to-day he's lucky. I expect his dome was solid iv'ry,—most of them sluggers have that kind,—and in this case he needed it; for, once he gets goin', Uncle Noah makes a thorough job of it. He lands his next swipe square on the copper's head and tumbles him to the sidewalk like a bag of meal. The other two was at him with their clubs by this time, swingin' on him vicious; but somehow they couldn't get in anything but body blows that echoed on Uncle Noah's ribs like thumpin' a barrel. Must have been a tough old boy; for that never fazed him. And the crowd, that was a block deep by this time, seemed to be right with him.
"Slug the clubbers!" they yelled. "Knock their blocks off! Go to it, old man!"
He didn't need that to encourage him; for he wades in lively, raps first one head and then the other, until he had 'em all three on the pavement. That set the crowd wild.
"Now sneak while the sneakin's good, old top!" shouts one.
"Jump a cab!" sings out another.
Say, the idea that either of 'em might get out of this muss without goin' to the station house hadn't occurred to me before. But here was a taxi, jam up against the curb not a dozen feet off, with the chauffeur swingin' his cap enthusiastic.
"Quick, Uncle!" says I, gettin' him by the arm. "It's your one chance. You too, Robin. But show some speed about it."
At that, if it hadn't been for half a dozen chaps in the front row of the crowd that helped me shove 'em in, and the others that blocked off the groggy coppers who were wabblin' to their feet, we couldn't have pulled it off. But we piled 'em in, I gave the cabby the Purdy-Pells' street number, and away they was whirled. And you can bet I didn't linger in front of the Maison Maxixe long after that.
Twenty minutes later we had a little reunion in the Purdy-Pell lib'ry. Robin was holdin' some cracked ice to a lump on his forehead, and Uncle Noah was sittin' uncomf'table on the edge of a big leather chair.