opera coat, he succeeded in arresting his flight before it was fairly
started.

"Here!" he protested. "What's your hurry?"

With a vicious snarl, the man turned and snatched at his cloak. But P.
Sybarite adhered tenaciously to the coat.

"We were discussing your nose--"

At discretion, he interrupted himself to duck beneath the swing of a
powerful fist. And this last, failing to find a mark, threw its owner
off his balance. Tripping awkwardly over the low curbing of the
dooryard walk, he reeled and went a-sprawl on his knees, while his hat
fell off and (such is the impish habit of toppers) rolled and bounded
several feet away.

Releasing the cloak, P. Sybarite withdrew to a respectful remove and
held himself coolly alert against reprisals that never came. The other
picked himself up quickly, cast about for the taxicab, discovered it
swiftly making off--already twenty yards distant--and with a howl of
rage bounded through the gate and gave chase at the top of his speed.

Gravely, P. Sybarite retrieved the hat and followed to the curbing.

"Hey!" he shouted after the fast retreating figure--"here's your
_hat_!"

But he wasted breath. The taxicab was nearing Ninth Avenue, its
pursuer sprinting bravely a hundred feet to the rear, and as he