owth hickory club as thick as your wrist at the big end. He
swung it quick and accurate, and if that cop ain't nursin' a broken
forearm to-day he's lucky. I expect his dome was solid iv'ry,--most of
them sluggers have that kind,--and in this case he needed it; for, once
he gets goin', Uncle Noah makes a thorough job of it. He lands his next
swipe square on the copper's head and tumbles him to the sidewalk like a
bag of meal. The other two was at him with their clubs by this time,
swingin' on him vicious; but somehow they couldn't get in anything but
body blows that echoed on Uncle Noah's ribs like thumpin' a barrel. Must
have been a tough old boy; for that never fazed him. And the crowd, that
was a block deep by this time, seemed to be right with him.

"Slug the clubbers!" they yelled. "Knock their blocks off! Go to it, old
man!"

He didn't need that to encourage him; for he wades in lively, raps first
one head and then the other, until he had 'em all three on the pavement.
That set the crowd wild.

"Now sneak while the sneakin's good, old top!" shouts one.

"Jump a cab!" sings out another.

Say, the idea that either of 'em might get out of this muss without
goin' to the station house hadn't occurred to me before. But here was a
taxi, jam up against the curb not a dozen feet off, with the chauffeur
swingin' his cap enthusiastic.

"Quick, Uncle!" says I, gettin' him by the arm. "It's your one chance.
You too, Robin. But show some speed about it."

At that, if it hadn't been for half a dozen chaps in the front row of
the crowd that helped me shove 'em in, and the others that blocked off
the groggy coppers who were wabblin' to their feet, we couldn't have
pulled it off. But we piled 'em in, I gave the cabby the Purdy-Pells'
street number, and away they was whirled. And you can bet I didn't
linger in front of the Maison Maxixe long after that.

Twenty minutes later we had a little reunion in the Purdy-Pell lib'ry.
Robin was holdin' some cracked ice to a lump on his forehead, and Uncle
Noah was sittin' uncomf'table on the edge of a big leather chair.

"How cheery!" says I. "But take it from me, Uncle, you're some
two-fisted scrapper! I didn't think it was in you."

"We-e-ell," he drawls out, still breathin' a bit hard, but gettin' back
his gentle smile, "I didn't want to do no fursin' with them constables;
but you know Mistuh Phil he told me to see that Robin didn't git into no
trouble, and--and--we-e-ell, I didn'