the sidewalk. There the conflict raged; the pacific wooden Indian,
with his carven smile, was overturned, and those of the street who
delighted in carnage pressed round to view the zealous joust.

But then came the inevitable cop and imminent inconvenience for both
the attacker and attacked. John Hopkins was a peaceful citizen, who
worked at rebuses of nights in a flat, but he was not without the
fundamental spirit of resistance that comes with the battle-rage.
He knocked the policeman into a grocer's sidewalk display of goods
and gave Freshmayer a punch that caused him temporarily to regret
that he had not made it a rule to extend a five-cent line of credit
to certain customers. Then Hopkins took spiritedly to his heels down
the sidewalk, closely followed by the cigar-dealer and the policeman,
whose uniform testified to the reason in the grocer's sign that read:
"Eggs cheaper than anywhere else in the city."

As Hopkins ran he became aware of a big, low, red, racing automobile
that kept abreast of him in the street. This auto steered in to the
side of the sidewalk, and the man guiding it motioned to Hopkins
to jump into it. He did so without slackening his speed, and fell
into the turkey-red upholstered seat beside the chauffeur. The big
machine, with a diminuendo cough, flew away like an albatross down
the avenue into which the street emptied.

The driver of the auto sped his machine without a word. He was masked
beyond guess in the goggles and diabolic garb of the chauffeur.

"Much obliged, old man," called Hopkins, gratefully. "I guess you've
got sporting blood in you, all right, and don't admire the sight of
two men trying to soak one. Little more and I'd have been pinched."