Just before the Tribune went to press, a sergeant of police called on Field in response to a summons by telephone.  After a whispered conference he left, with a broad smile struggling under his curling mustache.  In company with a number of his staff Field next made the round of the all-night haunts and gathered to his aid as fine a collection of bohemian “thoroughbreds” as ever made the revels of Mardi Gras look like a Sunday-school convention.  He installed them at the resort of a Kentucky gentleman named Jones, opposite the St. James.  As one who was there reports, “The amber milk of the Blue-grass cow flowed in plenty.”  Bidding his associates await his return, Field, armed with a single bottle, crossed the street to the hotel in search of the enemy.

For half, an hour they waited, in growing fear that Wickersham had retired for the night, with orders the night clerk dared not disobey, that he was not to be disturbed, even if the hotel was on fire.  Just as expectation had grown heavy-eyed, Field appeared crossing the street with Wickersham on his arm, very happy, more of a good fellow than ever and more than ever ready for red-eyed anarchy of any sort.

“After a swift hour”—­I quote from one who was there and whose account tallies with Field’s own—­“and as the morning opened out Field insisted on breaking for sunlight and fresh air.  Wickersham was always a leader, even in the matter of making a noise.  He sang; everyone else applauded.  He shrieked and shouted; all approved.  Windows went up across the way in the hotel, and night-capped heads protruded to investigate.  The frantic din of the electric-bells could be heard.  The clerk appeared to protest.”  What attention might have been paid to his protest will never be known, for just then “’Possum Jim’s” gothic steed and rattletrap cart rounded the corner.

“I say, old man,” shouted Field, “we want your rig for an hour; what’s it worth?”

Jim played his part slyly, and the bargain was finally struck for $2.50, the owner to present no claim for possible damages.  Wickersham was so delighted with the shrewdness of the deal that he insisted on paying the bill.  The horse, which could scarcely stand on his four corners, was quickly unharnessed and hitched to a telegraph pole, and before he realized what the madcaps were about, Wickersham was himself harnessed into the shafts.  The novelty of his position suited his mood.  He pranced and snorted, and pawed the ground and whinnied, and played horse in fine fettle until the word go.  Field, with a companion beside him, held the reins and cracked the whip.  The others helped the thoroughbred in harness the best they could by pushing.