"But listen," I begins, "I can explain how——"
"Ah, feed it to the sergeant," says he. "Come along, you," and he takes Barry by the arm.
Being a quiet night in the precinct the desk sergeant had plenty of time to listen. He'd just decided against Barry, too, when I sprung my scrap of paper on him. It's a receipt in full for one barber's pole, signed by Otto Krumpheimer. I knew it was O. K. because I'd signed it myself.
"How about that?" asks the sergeant of the cop.
And all the flatty can do is gaze at it and scratch his head.
"No case," says the sergeant. "Beat it, you."
Then I nudges Barry. He speaks up prompt, too. "I want my little barber pole," says he.
"Ah, take it along," says the sergeant, disgusted.
"Sorry, officer," says I, as we drifts out, and I slips him a five casual.
"Enjoy yourselves, boys," says he. "But pick out another beat."