Splash! splash! splash! “Ooo—oof! Leggo! Murder!”—a wild riot of sounds made the welkin ring. A fast-gathering mob bustled nearer. Dripping, hatless, coatless, the helpless fugitive was given a shove down the sidewalk by Vincent, who turned and confronted a police officer.
“Hi, there!” challenged the latter sternly—“what’s the trouble here?”
“No trouble at all,” retorted Vincent. “I’ve saved you that. That fellow slinking out of sight between those two buildings stole my coat and I’ve got it back—that’s all.”
“A thief; eh?”
“Oh, he’s out of sight and I’m satisfied,” advised Vincent. “I gave him free lodging and feed in the city and he paid me back by robbing me. We’re square now and no need of your services, thank you. By the way, though, you might glimpse him so as to be able to keep track of him. He’s a slippery customer to have in a town where there’s even door mats or lawn mowers lying around loose.”
Frank had picked up the coat from the pavement where Vincent had flung it and he now offered it to him.
“That you, Durham?” hailed the ventriloquist, mopping his perspiring brow—“and the rest of the crowd? Howdy—I declare, I was ruffled. I can stand anything but ingratitude.”
“Who is the fellow, anyway?” inquired Jolly.
“Oh, he’s been a hanger-on at the movies and a sponge and dead beat for a long time. His name is Jack Beavers.”
“What’s that?” cried Pep, sharply. “Why, that’s the name of the ‘big New York man’ who is going to start the new show with Peter Carrington and his crowd.”