But they would not give him any sort of a chance. They rushed him down the steep stairs, and while M‘Cluire ran ahead two more pushed back the crowd that had surged uncertainly forward to the rescue. If Hefty had declared his identity the police would have had a very sad time of it; but that he must not get Mr. Carstairs’ two-thousand-franc suit into trouble was all that filled Hefty’s mind, and all that he wanted was to escape. Three policemen walked with him down the street. They said they knew where he lived, and that they were only going to take him home. They said this because they were afraid the crowd would interfere if it imagined Hefty was being led to the precinct station-house.

But Hefty knew where he was going as soon as he turned the next corner and was started off in the direction of the station-house. There was still quite a small crowd at his heels, and Stuff M‘Govern was driving along at the side anxious to help, but fearful to do anything, as Hefty had told him not to let any one know who his fare had been and that his incognito must be preserved.

The blood rushed to Hefty’s head like hot liquor. To be arrested for nothing, and by that thing M‘Cluire, and to have the noble coat-of-mail of the Marquis de Neuville locked up in a dirty cell and probably ruined, and to lose his position with Carstairs, who had always treated him so well, it was terrible! It could not be! He looked through his visor; to the right and to the left a policeman walked on each side of him with his hand on his iron sleeve, and M‘Cluire marched proudly before. The dim lamps of M‘Govern’s night- hawk shone at the side of the procession and showed the crowd trailing on behind. Suddenly Hefty threw up his visor. “Stuff,” he cried, “are youse with me?”

He did not wait for any answer, but swung back his two iron arms and then brought them forward with a sweep on to the back of the necks of the two policemen. They went down and forward as if a lamp- post had fallen on them, but were up again in a second. But before they could rise Hefty set his teeth, and with a gurgle of joy butted his iron helmet into M‘Cluire’s back and sent him flying forward into a snow-bank. Then he threw himself on him and buried him under three hundred pounds of iron and flesh and blood, and beat him with his mailed hand over the head and choked the snow and ice down into his throat and nostrils.

“You’ll club me again, will you?” he cried. “You’ll send me to to the Island?” The two policemen were pounding him with their night-sticks as effectually as though they were rapping on a doorstep; and the crowd, seeing this, fell on them from behind, led by Stuff M‘Govern with his whip, and rolled them in the snow and tried to tear off their coat-tails, which means money out of the policeman’s own pocket for repairs, and hurts more than broken ribs, as the Police Benefit Society pays for them.

“Now then, boys, get me into a cab,” cried Hefty. They lifted him in, and obligingly blew out the lights so that the police could not see its number, and Stuff drove Hefty proudly home.

“I guess I’m even with that cop now,” said Hefty, as he stood at the door of the studio building perspiring and happy; “but if them cops ever find out who the Black Knight was, I’ll go away for six months on the Island. I guess,” he added thoughtfully, “I’ll have to give them two prizes up.”