The poor officer was too much amazed and thunder-struck to be chagrined at his defeat. He made a rush for the cell; shouted to the prisoners; and half a minute later Chauncey, green August overcoat and all, was in his uncle’s arms.
The sergeant turned to the smiling police captain.
“Allow me to present——”
He was interrupted by a yell; Chauncey had glanced up at the clock.
“Good heavens!” he cried. “We’ve ten minutes to make the train!”
Chauncey, aristocratic and Chesterfieldian Chauncey, alas, I blush to record it, had forgotten in one instant that there was such a thing on earth as a rule of etiquette. He forgot that there was such a person on earth as a police captain. He never even looked at him. His two friends at his side, he made one wild dash for the door.
He was not destined to get out of it, however. During the excitement no one had noticed the approach of another white shirt front and in rushed Millionaire No. 2.
No. 2 had the chief of police!
“You’ve a prisoner here named Smith——” cried the latter excitedly. “Release——”
Just then the millionaire caught sight of Chauncey, and again there were handshakes and apologies, another scurrying toward the door.