Once or twice the officer found himself admiring the easy seat of his
prisoner; and if the horse had been anything but a trained animal, he
would have worried some regarding the ultimate arrival at the third-
precinct.

Half a dozen times Warburton was of a mind to make a bolt for it, but
he did not dare trust the horse or his knowledge of the streets. He
had already two counts against him, disorderly conduct and abduction,
and he had no desire to add uselessly a third, that of resisting an
officer, which seems the greatest possible crime a man can commit and
escape hanging. Oh, for a mettlesome nag! There would be no police-
station for him, then. Police-station! Heavens, what should he do?
His brother, his sister; their dismay, their shame; not counting that
he himself would be laughed at from one end of the continent to the
other. What an ass he had made of himself! He wondered how much money
it would take to clear himself, and at the same moment recollected
that he hadn't a cent in his clothes. A sweat of terror moistened his
brow.

"What were ye up to, anyway?" asked the policeman. "What kind of
booze have ye been samplin'?"

"I've nothing to say."

"Ye speak clear enough. So much th' worse, if ye ain't drunk. Was ye
crazy t' ride like that? Ye might have killed th' women an' had a
bill of manslaughter brought against ye."

"I have nothing to say; it is all a mistake. I got the wrong number
and the wrong carriage."