The Italian had been cooking the "red-hots" on a steel plate. The plate, of course, was hot, and it struck the dog. There came a yelp of pain, and the dog tore out from under the cart and hustled back toward the photograph instrument.
The Italian had changed his tune. He was not laughing, now, but was prancing around and howling frantically for the police.
"Sacre diabolo estrito crystal!" he shrieked. "You wreck-a da wag'—you spoil-a da bun, da red-a-hot! Polees! Me, I like-a keel-a you! Polees! polees!"
While he yelled, he started angrily toward Carl. The Dutch boy, whirling the overturned cart around, caused the Italian to stumble over it. Leaving him to writhe and sputter among the scattered buns and "wienes," Carl raced on toward the steel pier.
He was flattering himself that he would be able to regain the bathhouse without further molestation, but in this he was mistaken. An officer jumped down from the side of the pier, as he came close to it, and grabbed him by the arm.
"Not so fast, there!" cried the policeman.
"Vat's der madder mit you?" wheezed Carl. "I don'd vas doing anyt'ing."
"Oh, no," was the sarcastic response, "you wasn't doing a thing! What did you kick over that dago's cart for?"
"Dose fellers hat set a dog on me!" cried Carl. "Ditn't you see der dog?"
Just then the Italian, two of the pirates and one of the men with the photographic apparatus, hurried up, all in a crowd.