“Where to?” Fred demanded groggilyer.

The question was answered by hundreds of determined holders of the elective franchise as if by one: “To City Hall!”

“Aw0000,” bawled The Kerry Pig, burying his face in his hands.

“Any minute now, any goddam minute now,” Big Patsy cried, “Groucho, Harpo and Chico will come through chasing a turkey with croquet mallets. An prob’ly Zeppo and Gummo, too,” he added, esoterically.

“WHERE TO, GANG!” shouted one of the Seekers of Justice and Retribution, harkening for the expected answer.

“CITY HALL! CITY HALL!” it came thundering back from hundreds of sweaty faces.

“City Hall?” asked Wallace Fish in a small voice.

“City Hall,” Red Fred replied resignedly, shrugging his shoulders.

“And not to meet Grover Whalen, either,” he added, mixed emotions melding mucously in his voice. He headed crosstown with the expression of one who not only has his hand on the throttle, but expects momentarily to be a-scalded to death by steam. As if in a reverie, or waking dream, he automatically drove his train of cars along its familiar route. The perfervid shouts and groans of the passengers fell but faintly on his inner ears. It he failed to aid Big Patsy, Wallace “Gefilte” Fish, and The Kerry Pig in making good their escape from the Constabulary, the three would beyond doubt find an occasion to tread and trample him into the consistency of a creole gumbo, even if they had to break stir to do it. And, on the other hand, if he should be taken up by the gendarmerie in this affair, not only did he stand excellent chance of being stood in the stocks with his ears cropped for violating the Idlers’ and Gamesters’ Accomplices Act III of William and Mary 12 c; but the police—excitable as children, but much stronger—might easily do him a mischief.