WELL-KNOWN LAWYER
CLAD IN PINK ROMPERS
HALED TO NIGHT COURT

He saw--but Switzer's next remark sent a fresh shudder of apprehension
through him, caught all again, as he was, in the coils of accursed
circumstance.

"Magistrate Voris will be gettin' sleepy what with waitin' for them
raids to be pulled off, and I make no doubt the sight of you will put
him in a good humour."

And Magistrate Voris was his rival for the favours of Miss Milly
Hollister! And Magistrate Voris was a person with a deformed sense of
humour! And Magistrate Voris was sitting in judgment this moment at
Jefferson Market night court. And now desperation, thrice compounded,
rent the soul of the trapped victim of his own misaimed subterfuge.

"I won't be taken to any night court!" he shouted, wresting himself
toward the edge of the sidewalk and dragging his companion along with
him. "I won't go there! I demand to be taken to a station house. I'm a
sick man and I require the services of a doctor."

"Startin' to be rough-house all over again, huh?" grunted Switzer
vindictively. "Well, we'll see about that part of it, too--right now!"

Surrendering his lowermost clutch, the one in the silken seat of the
suit of his writhing prisoner, he fumbled beneath the tails of his
overcoat for the disciplinary nippers that were in his righthand rear
trousers pocket.

With a convulsive twist of his body Mr. Leary jerked himself free of the
mittened grip upon his neckband, and as, released, he gave a deerlike
lunge forward for liberty he caromed against a burdened ash can upon the
curbstone and sent it spinning backward; then recovering sprang onward
and outward across the gutter in flight. In the same instant he heard
behind him a crash of metal and a solid thud, heard a sound as of a
scrambling solid body cast abruptly prone, heard the name of Deity
profaned, and divined without looking back that the ash can,
conveniently rolling between the plump legs of the personified Arm of
the Law, had been Officer Switzer's undoing, and might be his salvation.

VIII

With never a backward glance he ran on, not doubting as a hare before
the beagle, but following a straight course, like unto a hunted roebuck.
He did not know he could run so fast, and he could not have run so fast
any other time than this. Beyond was a crossing. It was blind instinct
that made him double round the turn. And it was instinct, quick