into the shadow where the cab stand juts out, and when
nobody's passin' you work the screws loose. Me, I got to drop into the
writin' room and dash something off. Here we are. Go to it."

Course, he could have bugged things. Might have dropped the screwdriver
through a grating, or got himself caught in the act. But Barry has
surrounded the idea nicely. He couldn't have done better if he'd been
sent out to a listenin' post. And when I strolls out again five minutes
later there he stands with the pole tucked careful under one arm.

"Fine work!" says I. "But we don't want to hide it altogether. Carry it
careless like, with your overcoat unbuttoned, so both ends will show.
That's the cheese!"

It ain't one of these big, vulgar barber poles, you know; not over four
feet long and about as many inches thick. But it's a brilliant one, and
with Barry in evenin' dress he's bound to be some conspicuous luggin'
it. Yet I starts him straight up Broadway, me trailin' 25 or 30 feet
behind.

If it had been further up town he might have collected quite a mob of
followers, but down here there's only a few passing at that time of
night. Most of 'em only turns to look after him and smile. One or two
gives him the merry hail and asks where the Class of 1910 is holdin' the
banquet.

He'd done nearly five blocks before a flatfoot steps out of a doorway
and waves a nightstick at him.

"Hey, whaddye mean, pullin' that hick stuff?" demands the cop.

"Sir!" says Barry, wavin' him off dignified.

Then I mixes in. "It's perfectly all right, officer," says I. "I know
him."

"Oh, do you?" says the cop. "Well, some of you army guys know a lot; and
then again some of you don't. But you can't get away with any such
cut-up motions on my beat."

"But listen," I begins, "I can explain how----"

"Ah, feed it to the sergeant," says he. "Come along, you," and he takes
Barry by the arm.

Being a quiet night in the precinct the desk sergeant had plenty of time
to listen. He'd just decided against Barry, too, when I sprung my scrap
of paper on him. It's a receipt in full for one barber's pole, signed by
Otto Krumpheimer. I knew it was O. K. because I'd signed it myself.

"How about that?" asks the sergeant of the cop.

And all the flatty can do is gaze at it and scratch his head.

"No case," says the sergeant. "Beat it, you."

Then I nudges Barry. He speaks up prompt, too. "I want my little barber
pole," says he.

"Ah, take it along," says