Strong arms clipping him, he struggled violently for an instant.
"Here!" a voice warned him roughly. "It ain't goin' to do you no
good--"
Another interrupted with an accent of deep disgust, in patent
recognition of his borrowed plumage: "Damned if it ain't a patrolman!"
"Why the hell didn't you say so?" demanded the first as P. Sybarite
fell back, free.
"Didn't--have--time. Here--gimme a leg over this fence, will you?"
"What the devil--!"
"They've got a door through to the next house--getting out that way.
That's what I'm after--to stop 'em. Shut up!" P. Sybarite insisted
savagely--"and give me a leg."
"Oh, well!" said one of the plain-clothes men in a slightly mollified
voice--"if that's the way of it--all right."
"Come along, then," brusquely insisted the impostor, leading the way
to the eastern wall of boards enclosing the back yard.
Curiously complaisant for one of his breed, the detective bent his
back and made a stirrup of his clasped hands, but no sooner had P.
Sybarite fitted foot to that same than the man started and,
straightening up abruptly, threw him flat on his back.
"Patrolman, hell! Whatcha doin' in them pants and shoes if you're a
patrol--"
"Hel-_lo_!" exclaimed the other indignantly. "Impersonatin' an
officer--eh?"
With this he dived at P. Sybarite; who, having bounced up from a
supine to a sitting position, promptly and peevishly swore, rolled to
one side (barely eluding clutches that meant to him all those
frightful and humiliating consequences that arrest means to the
average man) and scrambled to his feet.
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