“W—why!” gasped the amazed policeman.
“I want to know, don’t ye know,” said Chauncey, “if I can send a telegram, bah Jove?”
“Yes,” growled the other. “That is, if you’ve got any money.”
Chauncey pulled out his “roll,” which had been missed when they searched him, and tossed a five-dollar bill carelessly to the man.
“Take that,” said he. “Bah Jove, I don’t want it, ye know. Come now, write what I tell you.”
The man took the bill in a hurry and drew out a pencil and notebook, while Chauncey’s two fellow-prisoners stared anxiously. Chauncey dictated with studied scorn and indifference.
“Am—arrested,” said he, “for—burglary—ye—know.”
The policeman wrote the “ye know,” obediently, though he gasped in amazement and muttered “lunatic.”
“Under—name—of—Peter—Smith— —— Street—station. Come—instantly Chauncey.”
“Who shall I send it to?” inquired the “stenographer.”