“I can’t stop, I tell you!” roared Chauncey. “I’ll miss the train—quick—bah Jove, ye know, I’ll be ruined—I——”
There was another clatter of wheels at the door.
“Good gracious!” gasped the unfortunate cadet. “It’s somebody else! Bah Jove! Deuce take the luck!”
Nothing has been said of the unfortunate sergeant during this. He was leaning against his desk in a state of collapse. Millionaire No. 3 had entered the room.
Millionaire No. 3 had a police commissioner!
“You’ve a prisoner here named Smith,” cried he. “Release——”
This time the plebes were desperate. They could stand it no longer. Chauncey had forced his way to the door and made a dash for one of the carriages.
“Drive——” he began, and then he stopped long enough to see another carriage rush up—Millionaire No. 4. Millionaire No. 4 had somebody—Chauncey didn’t know who. But the agonized sergeant did.
It was no less a personage than his honor, the mayor.
(His honor the mayor was mad, too, and you may bet the sergeant caught it.)