"Whisky straight, if you please," was the prompt reply, "and, Jerry, I'll just step inside this door to drink it," and pushing open the door which led to the little stall-like rooms, he waited for Jerry to bring him his whisky there.
Mr. Tompkins was a cautious policeman, you see. He was careful—indeed, most anxious, not to bring reproach on the excellent body of men to which he belonged.
Jerry soon made his appearance with a liberal dose of "poison," which Tompkins swallowed as if he loved it, and then, with a cheerful good-day, he went out.
Neither Taylor nor Stark was in sight. The first, on emerging from the saloon, had hurried down the street. The other had let him get some distance ahead and then had followed him.
They kept on in this way until they had reached the vicinity of Bond Street and Broadway, when quickening his pace, Stark came up with Taylor, and slapping him on the back, said in a matter-of-fact tone:
"Mr. Taylor, I should be pleased with the favor of your company for a short distance."
"Who the devil are you?" exclaimed Taylor, turning upon him with a start.
"I am an officer of the law and you are my prisoner," was the stern reply.
"I don't know about that."
"I do. And let me tell you, Jimmie, it will be best for you to go along with me quietly, understand?"