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<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> <h3>BATEATO SUMMONS BIG MUCH POLICE.</h3> 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. <div></div> 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. <div></div> 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.” <div></div> 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. <hr class="toprule" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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