Course that spilled the beans. There was squeals, and shrieks, and a gen'ral mixup; some tryin' to get closer, others beatin' it to get away, and all the makin's of a young riot. But the management at the Maison Maxixe don't stand for any rough stuff. In less than a minute a bunch of house detectives was on the spot, the young hesitationer was whisked into a cloakroom, and the other gent was bein' shot towards the fresh air. Just a glimpse that I caught of his flushed face as it was bein' tucked under a bouncer's arm set me in action. I made a break for a side exit; but there's such a jam everywhere that it's two or three minutes before I can get around to the front. And there's young Hollister, with an end of his dress collar draped jaunty over his right ear, tryin' to kick the belt buckle off a two-hundred-pound cop who's holdin' him at arm's length with one hand and rappin' his nightstick for help with the other; while Uncle Noah stands one side, starin' some disturbed at the spectacle. I knew that was no time to butt in! In that section of the White Light district too you can call up plenty of help by a few taps from the locust. Cops came on the jump from two adjoinin' posts,--big husky Broadway cops,--and they swoops down on young Robin like a bunch of Rockefeller deacons on a Ferrer school graduate who rises in prayer meetin' to ask the latest news from Paint Creek. "What you got, Jim?" puffs one. "Young hick that got messy in the tango joint," says Jim. "Ah, fan him a few!" remarks the other. "Hold him still now while I----" At which Uncle Noah pushes in and holds up a protestin' hand. "Now see heah, Mistuh Constable," says he, "I wouldn't go for to do anything like that!" "Wha-a-at?" snarls the copper. "Say, you old billy-goat, beat it!" And he proceeds to clip young Mr. Hollister a glancin' blow on the side of the bead. His next aim was better; but this time the nightstick didn't connect. There's been let loose a weird, high-pitched howl, which I didn't recognize at the time as the old Rebel yell, but know now that it was. Uncle Noah had gone into action. That walkin' stick of his was a second-growth hickory club as thick as your wrist at the big end. He swung it quick and accurate, and if that cop ain't nursin' a broken forearm to-day he's lucky. I expect his dome was solid iv'ry,--most of them sluggers have that kind,--and in this case he needed it; for, once he gets goin', Uncle Noah makes a thorough job of it. He lands his next swipe square on the copper's head and tumbles him to the sidewalk like a bag of meal. The other two was at him with their clubs by this time, swingin' on him vicious; but somehow they couldn't get in anything but body blows that echoed on Uncle Noah's ribs like thumpin' a barrel. Must have been a tough old boy; for that never fazed him. And the crowd, that was a block deep by this time, seemed to be right with him. "Slug the clubbers!" they yelled. "Knock their blocks off! Go to it, old man!"