"The next superlative quality on my list," droned the master of ceremonies, disregarding the fact that he addressed only the bent backs of five inattentive scrubwomen, "is that of Quickest. This office entails management and control, under Penn Service, of the Department of Police, involving responsibility for the keeping of peace in Philadelphia and outlying suburbs."
A slim, alert-looking man of about forty-five advanced to the pit.
"Is there any other candidate for this office? Any other candidate?"
Came the click of hurrying heels, and round the dais appeared a small, rotund figure, surmounted by a cherubic but troubled countenance. Trenmore growled disappointedly. He had hoped for Drayton, not Bertram. What misadventure was keeping his friend away?
Bertram came up just as the master of ceremonies commenced his stereotyped conclusion: "No other candidate for this office. Present holder may-"
"Wait a minute there!" cried Trenmore, and thrust Bertram forward. "Go on-go on in, you fat rascal!" he added in a forceful whisper. "Here's the contest for Quickest now. You've not quite missed it. Go on!"
Though Bertram struggled vainly to face about, the Irishman still pushed him forward. He was not wasting such an opportunity to delay the proceedings in his absent friend's interest.
"I–I've changed my mind!" the burglar protested.
"Are we to understand," cut in Mr. Pity, "that this person does or does not wish to compete? Just a minute, chief. I don't know whether or not you have a rival."
"Certainly not!" spluttered Bertram.