a terror—­not of cowardice, but of friendlessness—­seized Isaac Masters, and a foreboding that he might possibly fail after all made his spine tingle.  Still he drove on.  He had passed through the main street—­or across it—­he did not know—­until the electric lights cast dim shadows, until stately banks had given way to unkempt brick fronts, until the glittering bar-rooms had been exchanged for vulgar saloons—­until—­

Masters came to a sudden halt, and dropping his bag, uttered a loud cry.  The curtained door of a grog-shop opened upon him.  A hatless man dashed out, swearing horribly, and all but fell into Isaac’s arms.  With a cry of terror the runner dodged the pedestrian, and bolted down the street.  Not twenty feet behind him bounded his pursuer.

By this time the country boy had slipped into the shadow of the building, where he could see without being seen.  In that moment Isaac caught sight of a dazed group of men within, and the profile of the pursuer against the hot light of the saloon.  He saw a brute holding a pistol in his out-stretched hand.  Before Isaac understood the situation, the weapon shot out two flames and two staccato reports.  These were followed by the intense silence which is like the darkness upon the heels of lightning.

Isaac’s eyes were now strained upon the creature who was shot.  He saw the man stagger, throw up his hands, and fall.  He heard a groan.  At that time the murderer with the smoking revolver was not more than ten paces away.  As he fired, he had stopped.  When he saw his victim fall, he gave a hoarse laugh.

By this time the lights in the saloon were put out, and its occupants had fled.  The rustle of human buzzards flocking to the tragedy had begun.  A motion that the murderer made to escape aroused the New Hampshire boy to a fierce sense of justice.  A few bounds brought him by the side of the ruffian, who looked upon him with astonishment, and then with inflamed fear.  Isaac furiously struck the pointed pistol to the pavement, and grasped the fellow’s waist.  Then he knew that he had almost met his match.  Isaac held his opponent’s left arm by the wrist, and tightened the vise.  The murderer held the boy around his neck with a contracting grip such as only a prize-fighter understands.  Neither spoke a word.  It was power—­power against skill.

There was a crash and a cry and a fall.  But not until Isaac knew that the man under him was helpless did he utter a sound.  Then he called:  “Police!  Police!”

The answer was a blinding blow upon the crown of his head.  Then, before his head swam away into unconsciousness, he felt a strange thing happen to his wrists.

* * * * *

The first lieutenant, the captain, and the superintendent are different beings from the officer of the street, who has no gilt stripes upon his sleeves.  The one, having passed through all grades, is supposed to have been chosen not only because of his fidelity and bravery, but because of his discriminating gentleness or gentlemanliness.  The other, a private of the force, often a foreigner, with foreign instincts, and eager for promotion (that is, he means to make as many arrests as possible), confuses the difference between rudeness and authority, brutality and law.  By the time he is a sergeant sense has been schooled into him, and he ought to know better.