He had a laugh that was like the braying of a mule, and a passing pedestrian dodged so suddenly that he jumped from under his hat, while an old lady with an umbrella turned and cried: “Shoo! Git away! Don’t you bite me!” She waved her umbrella in Gamp’s direction and peered fearfully over her spectacles, as if she fully expected to see some fierce wild beast rushing upon her. That caused all the other boys to laugh again, while Joe paused, with his huge mouth wide open, and stared in surprise at the excited and trembling old lady. “Hey?” he cried. “Mercy!” gasped the old lady. “I thought so. I thought it was a horse whickerin’ for hay.” Then she hurried on, while the boys, with the exception of Gamp, were convulsed with merriment. Joe stared after the old lady’s retreating form, gasping for breath. “First tut-tut-tut-time I ever was took for a hoss!” he exclaimed. “That’s a horse on you,” chuckled Danny Griswold. Despite himself, Bruce Browning had not been able to keep from turning his head a moment to see what all the excitement was about. As he did so, a street urchin slipped out quickly and hitched a dead cat onto the end of the line that lay in the street, losing not a moment in scampering out of sight. Bruce pulled up the line to cast it out again, and the cat came with it. Then there was another shout of merriment. “Browning has met with a cat-astrophe,” laughed Frank. “He’s caught a cat-fish,” cried Danny Griswold. “Spt! spt! Me-e-e-ow! Ma-ri-ar!” Danny Griswold gave vent to a perfect volley of cat-calls, and there was an uproar of mirth around that corner. Through it all Browning retained his sober dignity, removing the cat from his hook, as if he had captured a fish, and flinging the line out into the street again. A policeman, who was sauntering along at a distance, heard the sounds, and came rushing forward. He was a green man on the force, and he had not been many moons on this side of the “pond.” He had red hair, and a face that looked like a painful accident. “Pwhat’s this, Oi dunno?” he exclaimed, bursting through the crowd and halting so suddenly that he nearly fell over himself when he saw Bruce. “An’ now will yez be afther tellin’ me pwhat ye’re doin’ there?” Browning made no reply, but gravely pulled up his line, looked at the hook, as if to ascertain the condition of the bait, and again made a cast into the street. The little Irishman grew red in the face. “Look here, me foine b’y!” he cried, flourishing his stick; “it’s the magisty av th’ law Oi ripresint, an’ Oi do be afther axin’ ye a quistion. Pwhat are yez doin’ there, Oi want to know?” Bruce remained silent. The spectators looked on with interest, wondering what the outcome would be. The policeman came a bit nearer Bruce, and again shook his stick, crying: