“Stealing what?” retorted Pep, vigorously. “No, you don’t!” he added, as the man tried to reach the camera. “That’s my property, as it happens.”
Several persons had caught the echo of the snap-clip of the camera. The rising up of the man and Pep, the start of a struggle, began to attract attention. Pep’s captor took a new tack. He waved a hand towards the entrance, uttering a low whistle. The house policeman came hurrying to the row of seats where the commotion was going on.
“Take this fellow out of here, officer,” spoke Pep’s captor. “He’s been up to tricks.”
Pep knew that resistance would be useless. Further than that, some ladies and children near to him were becoming nervous and alarmed. No one better than Pep knew how quickly a dangerous panic might start from a trifling incident. He went quietly with the officer, his captor following.
“What is it—an arrest?” inquired the policeman, as they got down the aisle away from the center of excitement.
“Later, maybe,” was the response. “Let the management decide that. Take him to the office.”
The policeman now grasped Pep’s arm, which the other man released. He marched him clear to the rear, then around the rows of seats and down a side aisle to the stage end of the house. He opened a door at one side of the stage, went through a passageway, and ushered Pep into a lighted room.
This was the office of the New Idea. It little resembled the tasty business-looking office of the Standard. It contained chairs, a desk and a table. The air was cloudy with tobacco smoke. Their chairs tilted back against the wall, their feet elevated on the table, and smoking cigars, were Slavin and another person.
There was no doubt that Slavin instantly recognized Pep, for at a sharp stare at the youth down came chair and feet.
“Hello! what’s this?” he shot out.