The old man was watching the street parade, hands in his trousers pockets, chin stuck out, and whiskers projecting a foot in front of him.
I reached my hand into his pocket, got a grip on the wallet, and was about to give the quick snap of the wrist and jostle, which is part of the pickpocket's technique, when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I knew instinctively that it was a detective. Quickly thrusting the bulky wallet back into the old man's pocket, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him.
I FELT A HAND ON MY SHOULDER
"Oh, Uncle Dan!" I cried between the kisses, with which I fairly smothered the astonished old man; "where in the world did you come from?"
The old man almost got apoplexy, for I kissed him and hugged him with a vehemence that made everybody forget the parade. I can remember the sea of whiskers I dived into.
"Gosh all hemlock, who are you?" he gasped when I let him go. "I ain't Dan, I'm Abijah."
The detective really believed that I knew Abijah, but he remembered Lizzie and took her away. I was about to escape when a redfaced woman arrived and shouted:
"You hussy, what do you mean by hugging my husband?"
The detective hesitated and looked back, but he would have let me go if Lizzy hadn't been fool enough to call out: