A late diner cruised uncertainly down the street, and, sensing the
unusual, paused, rocking in his tracks.

"Whash trouble? Shome fightin' goin' on?" he inquired, brightly.

"Oh, please--please--" Lorelei cried, tremulously. "Don't--"

"Canter for the kind lady," Wharton insisted. "Come on." He began
to lift and lower his shoulders in imitation of a rider. Bergman
capered awkwardly. "Once more."

"Fine!" shouted the drunken spectator, clapping his hands loosely.
"Tha's bully. Now make 'im shingle-foot."

"Single-foot? Certainly. He's park gaited."

"Mr. Wharton! BOB--" Lorelei's agonized entreaty brought her
admirer to the cab door, but he fetched his prisoner in tow. "Let
him go or--we'll all be arrested."

"Want see 'im shingle-foot," eagerly importuned the stranger.

"I'll take off his bridle if you insist. But it's a grand nose.
I--love it. Never was there such a nose."

Bergman, with a desperate wrench, regained his freedom and
staggered away with his face in his hands.

"It--actually stretched," said Bob, as he regretfully watched his
victim. "I dare say I'll never find another nose like it."