Meanwhile the woman had arisen from the bed, very naturally, and was now rushing about the hall in typical angelic costume, occasionally poking her head out of the windows and shrieking for burglars and help, using a voice that had a very strong Irish brogue.
In response to her stentorian tones help was not slow in arriving. A crash upon the door was heard; the door gave way, and up the stairs rushed two men.
“Help us hold him!” roared Texas, who was at this moment trying his level best to push the criminal’s nose through the carpet. “Help us to hold him!”
But to his infinite surprise the two newcomers made a savage rush on him, and in an instant more the true state of affairs flashed over Texas.
“They’re friends of the burglar!” he cried. “Whoop! Come on, thar!”
The two men were not slow to accept his invitation. They added their bodies to the already complicated heap of arms and legs that were writhing about on the floor, and after that the mêlée was even livelier than ever. Even the woman took a hand; her Irish blood would not let her stay out of the battle long, and she pitched in with a broom, whacking everything promiscuously.
What would have been the end of all this riot I do not pretend to say; I only know that Mark was devoting himself persistently to the task of holding the burglar underneath him, in spite of all manner of punches and kicks, and that Texas was dashing back and forth across the room, plowing his way recklessly through every human being he saw when the “scrap” was brought to an untimely end by the arrival of one more person.
This latter was a policeman, a policeman of the fat and unwieldy type found only in New York. He had plunged up the stairs, club in hand, and now stood red and panting, menacing the crowd.
“Stop! stop!” he cried. “Yield to the majesty of the la-aw.”
Every one was glad to do that, as it appeared; the battling ceased abruptly and all parties concerned rose up and glared at each other in the dim light.