The snap of the handcuffs and the feeling of the cold steel subdued Chauncey and he subsided into growls. The officer took him by the arm, saying something as he did so about an “English crook.” And then the three filed downstairs, the indignant and much-bruised Irishman following and enlivening the proceedings with healthy anathemas.
That walk to the station house the three will never forget as long as they live, it was so unspeakably degrading; it was only a short way, just around the corner, but it was bad enough. Idlers and loafers fell in behind to jeer at them, scarcely giving them chance to reflect upon the desperately-horrible situation they were in.
Mark was glad when at last the door of the station house shut upon them to hide them from curious eyes. There was almost no one in here to stare at them, but a sleepy sergeant at the desk; he looked up with interest when they entered, and were marched up before him.
“What’s this?” he inquired.
“Burglars,” said one of the officers, briefly.
Chauncey’s wrath had been pent up for some ten minutes then, and at that word it boiled over again.
“I’m no burglar!” he roared. “I tell you, you fools, I’m no burglar! Bah Jove, this is an outrage.”
“Faith an’ yez are a burglar!” shouted the Irishman, likewise indignant. “An’ faith, Mr. Sergeant, the divils broke into me house and near broke me head, too, bad cess to ’em. An’ thot, too, whin Oi’d been to the club an’ were a-thryin’ to git to sleep without wakin’ me wife. An’ faith she’ll be after me wid a shtick, thot she will, to-morrer!”
“We aren’t burglars, I say!” protested Chauncey. “We thought he was a burglar. We’re cade——”
Here Mark gave him a nudge that nearly knocked him over; he looked up and caught sight of a spruce young man with pencil and notebook working diligently. It was a reporter and Chauncey took the hint and shut up.