The steward called away, he had drifted
naturally into a gentle nap. And now--"Glad I'm not in _his_ shoes!"
mused P. Sybarite.
And yet.... Urgent second thought changed the tenor of his temper
toward the sleeper. Better far to be in his shoes than in those of P.
Sybarite, just then....
Remembering Penfield's revolver, he made sure it was safe and handy in
his pocket; then strode in and dropped an imperative hand on the
policeman's shoulder.
"Here--wake up!" he cried; and shook him rudely.
The fellow stirred, grunted, and lifted a bemused, red countenance to
the breaker of rest.
"Hello!" he said in dull perception of a stranger. "What's--row?"
"Get up--pull yourself together!" P. Sybarite ordered sternly. "You
're liable to be broke for this!"
"Broke?" The officer's eyes widened, but remained cloudy with sleep,
drink, and normal confusion. "Where's Jimmy? Who're you?"
"Never mind me. Look to yourself. This place is being raided."
"Raided!" The man leaped to his feet with a cry. "G'wan! It ain't
possible!"
"Listen, if you don't believe me."
The crashing of the axes and the grumble of the curious crowd
assembled in the street were distinctly audible. The officer needed no
other confirmation; and yet--instant by instant it became more clearly
apparent that he had drunk too deeply to be able to think for himself.
Standing with a hand on the table, he rocked to and fro until, losing
his balance, he sat down heavily.
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