"My Gawd!" he cried. "I'm done for!"
"Nonsense! No more than I--unless you're too big a fool to take a word
of advice. Here--off with your coat."
"What's that?"
"I say, off with your coat, man--and look sharp! Get it off and I'll
hide it while you slip into one of those waiter's jackets over there.
Then, if they find us here, we can pretend to be employees. You
understand?"
"We'll get pinched, all the same," the man objected stupidly.
"Well, if we do, it only means a trip to the Night Court, and a fine
of five or ten dollars. You'll be up to-morrow for absence from post,
of course, but that's better than being caught half-drunk in the
basement of a gambling house on your beat."
Impressed, the officer started to unbutton his tunic, but hesitated.
"S'pose some of the boys recognise me?"
"Where are your wits?" demanded P. Sybarite in exasperation. "This
isn't a precinct raid! You ought to know that. This is Whitman, going
over everybody's head. Anyhow, it can't be worse for you than it
is--and my way gives you a fighting chance to get off."
"Guess you 're right," mumbled the other thickly, shrugging out of his
coat and surrendering it.
Several white jackets hung from hooks on the wall near the door.
Seizing one of these, the policeman had it on in a jiffy.
"Now what'll I do?" he pursued, as P. Sybarite, the blue coat over his
arm, grabbed the police cap and started for the door.
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