“Come in and help,” said I.  “The house is full of rascals.”

Thinking me one of the family, he loosed his hold on my broadcloth and hurried away to the back-door.  Whoever reads this story has already taken it for granted that I did not follow him, but that I did, on the contrary, make for the city and never cease travelling until I had reached the hotel.  Let no man reproach me with forsaking my friend, the Doctor, in his extremity.  I was brought up to reverence the law and to entertain a virtuous terror of policemen; and, besides, what could I have effected in that horrible labyrinth of dark rooms and multitudinous furniture?  I rang up the porter, went to bed, and lay awake alt the rest of the night, listening for the return of my companions.  No one came:  no Doctor, no Riley, no butcher, no baker, no candlestick-maker.  I was apparently the sole survivor of our little army.  In the morning I walked over to the police-station, peeped cautiously through the grated door of a long room where the night’s gatherings are lodged, and discovered my five friends, tattered and bruised, but holding a lively Dispensary in one corner.  From that moment I despaired of the Doctor and resolved to let him manage his own monomania.  I was still peeping when two of the police and a sly-looking man in citizen’s dress came up and stared boldly at the prisoners.

“Well, Old Cock, do you see your game?” asked one of the “force.”

“Thaht’s him,” returned the Old Cock, speaking with the soft drawl of the New York cockney.  “Tall fellah thah with thah black eye, thaht’s a-goin’ it now.  Thundah, what a roarah!”

“Well, what is he?” inquired the second of the New-Haveners.

“Joseph Hull, ’ligious lunatic,” said the Old Cock.  “Was in thah Bloomingdale Asylum.  Cut off one night about foah months ago and stole a suit o’ clothes that belonged to John M. Riley, with a lot o’ money and papahs and lettahs in thah pockets.  How’d you get hold of him?”

“Broke into a house eout here last night,” related the first New-Havener.  “He and them other fellers, and one more that we ha’n’t found.  I was on my beat ’bout one o’clock, and see ’em puttin’ up College Street full chisel.  I thought they looked kinder dangerous.  So I called Doolittle here, and Jarvis, and Jacobs, and we after ’em.  Chased ’em ’bout a mild and treed ’em at Square Russoll’s, way up Canal, eout in the country.  Three was in the yard and gin right up without doublin’ a fist, though they had their pockets chuck full o’ little pistols.  We locked ’em into the cellar, and then, went upstairs, where there was a devil of a yellin’ and fightin’.  Hanged if I know what they come there for.  They’d been pitchin’ into one another and knockin’ one another’s heads off, besides smashin’ furnichy and chimbly crockery, but hadn’t stole a thing.  The fat one and the long one—­them two with white chokers—­was lyin’ on the floor pootty much used up.  There was another that got up-stairs and jumped out a winder.  Jarvis was outside and collared him, but thought he was Russell’s son-in-law,—­ho, ho, ho!—­and let him off,—­ho, ho, ho!  Tell ye, Jarvis feels thunderin’ small ’bout it.  Ha’n’t been reound this mornin’.”