CHAPTER XXXIII.

BATEATO SUMMONS BIG MUCH POLICE.

A vitagraph film of Bateato's journey to and from the police station

would consist of a series of dark brown blurs. If you have ever

noticed a mouse in full flight you will have some idea of how that Jap

ran. He knew where the police station was, too, for he had been there

once when his brother, Itchi Comia, was arrested for assaulting a

Russian peddler.

If the little Jap had only coursed through another street things might

have gone somewhat differently in the Gladwin household, for he would

have encountered Whitney Barnes hurrying in the opposite direction,

and that young man would very likely have prevented him from going to

the station.

But there was absolutely no obstacle in Bateato's way until he reached

the station house, and the only obstacle he encountered there was a

serious impediment in his speech.

Police Captain Stone had returned to barracks a few minutes after the

departure of Barnes and a few minutes before the arrival of Bateato.

He was standing beside the lieutenant's chair when the Jap sped in,

and he seemed almost interested (for a police captain) at the

extraordinary manifestations of emotion in Bateato's countenance.

"All pleece--quick--robbers--thieves--ladies!" began Bateato, then

paused and made wild jabs above his head with his hands.

"Crazy as a nut," said the lieutenant in an undertone to the captain,

and the captain nodded.

"All pictures--thieves--steal ladies!" was Bateato's second

instalment, and the captain and lieutenant looked at each other and

shook their heads.

"Big much pleece!" shrieked Bateato, made some more motions with his

hands and rushed out into the street.

"It's Jap whiskey," said the captain, musingly, utterly unimpressed.

"He isn't crazy. That Jap whiskey's awful stuff. They licked the

Russian army on it. He'll run it off. If you ever see a Jap runnin'

you'll know what's the matter."

Bateato ran a block and then stopped.

"Hell damn!" he exploded. "I no tell where house."

He ran back to the station and burst in again with even more

precipitation.

"I no tell house," he rattled off. "Mr. Gladwin--Travers Gladwin.

Big lot white house--Fifth avenue--eighty, eighty, eighty.

Quick--thieves--ladies!" and he was gone again before Captain Stone

could remove his cigar from his face.

The captain looked at the lieutenant and the lieutenant looked at the

captain.

"Maybe he ain't drunk, Captain," ventured the lieutenant. "There's

that Gladwin house on the books. It's marked closed and there's a note

about a million-dollar collection of paintings."

The captain thought a moment and then burst into action:

"Call the reserves and get the patrol wagon," he shouted. "I remember

that Jap. I guess there's something doing. I'll go myself."

As the reserves were all asleep and the horses had to be hitched to

the patrol wagon Bateato had a big start of his big much pleece.

Notwithstanding the breathless condition in which he had arrived at

the station house, his return journey was accomplished at his dizziest

speed. Also he arrived back at the house way in advance of Whitney

Barnes. There was a reason.

Wearing a frock coat and a silk hat and carrying a cane (of course he

called it _stick_) one is hardly equipped for marathoning. And if you

must know more, Whitney's small clothes were too fashionably tight to

permit of more than a swift heel and toe action. At this he was doing

admirably in his passionate haste to return and warn his friend

Gladwin when another woman came into his life and appealed for

succor.

Three in one evening, when he was perfectly satisfied to stop at

one--the bewitching Sadie.

No. 3 was of an entirely different type from No. 1 and No. 2, and,

happily for Whitney, there was no yowling bundle this time--merely a

cat, and a silent cat at that.

She was a plump little woman and rather comely and she was intensely

excited, for the cat in the case was hers and the cat was up the only

tree on that street east of Central Park. At the foot of the tree sat

a large bulldog gazing fixedly up at the cat.

Whitney Barnes was so occupied with his heel and toe pace that he did

not descry the woman or the dog or the tree or the cat until the woman

seized him by the arm and cried:

"You must save my darling Zaza from that dog."

Then she tailed off into hysterical sobs, but did not release her

grip.

"Madam, I'm in great haste," retorted Barnes, striving to wriggle free

from her grip. "I would advise you to call a policeman."

"There is no policeman," sobbed the distressed mistress of Zaza. "Oh,

you m-m-m-must s-s-s-save my Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-aza. Oo-oo!"

Then Barnes glimpsed the dog and its fang-filled grin as it stared up

at the cat.

"You don't expect me to tackle that dog?" he asked, backing away and

making another effort to free himself.

"Shoot him! do anything to him!" insisted the distressed female.

"Oo-oo-oo! he kills cats. Do something quick or I must scream."

Whitney Barnes would have welcomed an open manhole to vanish into. If

that woman screamed and held fast to him till the police came it would

be just as bad as the baby case. But if he tackled the dog he would

probably go to the hospital and be afflicted with hydrophobia and all

sorts of things.

"Calm yourself my dear woman," he said frantically. "The dog cannot

climb the tree and your cat is perfectly safe."

"Are y-y-y-you s-s-s-sure?" she moaned. Then grabbing him tighter.

"But you must not leave me. In case the dog should go up that tree you

must attack it with your cane."

"I promise," panted Barnes, "if you will only release your grip on my

arm. Your finger nails are tearing the flesh."

"I w-w-w-will not hold you so tight," she consented, "but I must hold

on to you till somebody comes. Oh, look at that brute. He is biting

the tree. He----"

But the sudden clangor of a patrol wagon and the hammering of

steel-shod hoofs on the cobbles caused the owner of Zaza both to cease

her shrill lamentations and let go of Whitney Barnes's arm.

The patrol wagon was rolling down behind them at a furious pace while

its gong rent the stillness of the night as a warning to all crooks

and criminals to beware and to scurry to shelter. It is the New York

brass band method of thief hunting and if that patrol wagon gong

hadn't broken before the vehicle had crossed Madison avenue the

destinies of several prominent personages might have been seriously

hampered in their headlong fling.

That gong kept blaring its clang of warning long enough to frighten

off the dog and restore Whitney Barnes to freedom, and once released

from the bruising grip of that distraught little woman he turned his

back upon Zaza's fate and ran--he ran so long as he considered it

feasible to maintain the integrity of his trousers. That is, he ran

not quite a block, then dropped back to his heel and toe exercise and

swiftly ate up the distance that separated him from Travers Gladwin's

home.