“See here, officer,” said Mark, as calmly as he could. “This is all a mistake. We aren’t burglars; we are perfectly respectable young men——”
“You look like it,” put in the other, incredulously.
Mark’s heart sank within him at that. He glanced at his two companions and realized how hopeless was their case. New rags and tatters had been added by the battle. Disheveled hair, and dirt and blood-stained faces made them about as disreputable specimens as could be found in New York. Respectable young men! Pooh!
“I could explain it,” groaned Mark. “We thought this man was a burglar and we followed him in. We aren’t tramps if we do look it. We are——”
And then he stopped abruptly; to tell that they were cadets would be their ruination anyway.
“You’re a lot of thaves an’ robbers! Sure an’ thot’s what yez are!” shouted the irate “burglar,” filling in the sentence and at the same time making a rush at Mark.
“Come,” said the policeman, stopping him. “Enough of this. You fellers can tell your yarn to the judge to-morrow morning.”
Mark gasped as he realized the full import of that sentence. It was two o’clock and their train left in an hour or two—their last chance! And they could tell their story to the judge in the morning!
The policeman jerked a pair of handcuffs from his pockets and stepped up to Mark. The latter saw that resistance was hopeless and though it was torture to him he held out his wrists and said nothing. Texas, having no gun, could do nothing less. Chauncey was the only one who “kicked,” and he kicked like a steer.
“Bah Jove!” he cried. “This is an insult, a deuced insult! I won’t stand it, don’t cher know! Stop, I say. I won’t go, bah Jove! I’ll send for my father and have every man on the blasted police force fired! I——”