“You are mistaken in the man,” he firmly replied. “My name is not Chills, but Vernon—Barnaby Vernon. If you annoy me I shall call the police at once. Take away your hand, sir.”
“Police, indeed? Do you mean to say I’m not your guardian, Major Montague? And do you mean to say you’re not my nephew, and that you did not run away with my valise and all my valuable papers? Come right along. I shan’t give you up, now I’ve got you.”
“Police!” shouted Bar, stoutly, and:
“Police! police!” echoed Val, with a boyish resolve to stand by his friend.
It was not a quarter of the city in which the police are most plentiful, or it may be Major Montague would have hesitated, anxious as he was, for reasons of his own, to amend the errors of his fit of maudlin penitence, but, just for that once, the shout of the two boys fell on the right pair of ears, and the Major was actually brought face to face with a “very intelligent-looking cop,” as Val afterwards described him.
“Who are you?” was his first and somewhat rough question, addressed to the two boys.
“Who am I?” exclaimed Val, proudly. “I’m Valentine Manning, son of Dr. Randall Manning, and this is Mr. Barnaby Vernon, who is visiting with me.”
“And this,” added Bar, pointing at Major Montague, “is a very well-known bad character. I believe he is a professional pickpocket; but I couldn’t make a charge against him, except for assault on me now.”
“I don’t know if I’d better take you in charge,” began the policeman; but just then the proprietor of the gymnasium came down the stairs.
“Anything the matter, Mr. Manning?” he said to Val. “I thought you and your friend were up in the room. Policeman, what is that fellow up to?”