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... Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"
The policeman was still looking.
The persecuted young woman had but to
beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular
haven. Already he mortgage lender imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the
station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand,
caught Soapy's insurance broker coat sleeve.
"Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds.
I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching."
With mortgage broker the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked
past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.
At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the
district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and
librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry
air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had
rendered him immune to arrest.
The thought brought a little of panic
upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in
front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw mortgage broker of
"disorderly conduct."
On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at mortgage broker the top of his
harsh voice.
He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed mortgage broker the
welkin.
The policeman mortgage broker twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to
a citizen.
"'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the
Hartford bad credit mortgage College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to lave them
be."
Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a
policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an
unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat mortgage broker against the chilling
wind.
In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a
swinging light. mortgage broker ThirdPart400_500 His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering.
Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it
slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.
"My umbrella," he said, sternly.
"Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit mortgage broker larceny. "Well, why
don't you call a policeman? I took it.
Your mortgage broker umbrella! Why don't you ThirdPart400_500 call
a cop? There stands one on the corner."
The umbrella owner slowed his steps.
Soapy did likewise, with a
presentiment that luck would again run against him.
The policeman
looked at the two curiously.
"Of course," said the umbrella man--"that is--well, you know how these
mistakes occur--I--if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me--I
picked it up this mortgage lender mortgage broker morning in a restaurant--If you recognise it as yours,
why--I hope you'll--"
"Of course it's mine," said mortgage broker Soapy, viciously.
The ex-umbrella man retreated.
The policeman mortgage broker hurried to assist a tall
blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that
was approaching two blocks away.
Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He
hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He mortgage broker muttered against
the men who mortgage broker wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into
their clutches, mortgage broker they seemed to regard him mortgage broker as a king who could do ThirdPart400_500 no
wrong.
At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter
and turmoil was but faint. He set his f ... |
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