"Can you work that camera of yours with a load of buckshot whistling by your head?" asked Brennan. "Hot stuff, huh?" Benton asked, eagerly. John saw that the photographer's face actually brightened at the prospect of something out of the usual. Brennan told him, in short graphic sentences, what was before them. "Gosh darn!" Benton ejaculated. "Hot dog and sweet puppies!" As an outlet for his excitement he danced a queer little jig on the sidewalk, muttering a rhythmic verse as he shuffled his feet. At the termination of each heavily accented line he slapped his right foot down loudly. As he jigged his voice grew louder until John could discern the familiar lines from Kipling: "It was 'Din! Din! Din!' 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground, An' he's kickin' all around; For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!" In a few minutes three automobiles, following each other closely, wheeled into the curb. A man in the front seat of the first car motioned to them. "Brennan and Gallant?" he asked, brusquely. "Who's that with you?" "Our photographer," Brennan explained. "All right, get in." They clambered into the tonneau and the machine shot away from the curb, followed by the other two. "Well, we're on our way," said Brennan, settling back in the cushions. Absent-mindedly Benton resumed his half chant song. "You may talk o' gin and beer, When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Alder--SHOT-IT----" The crowds on the streets as the three automobiles wove their way through the traffic were that curious mixture of workers leaving late for their homes and pleasure seekers coming downtown for the first performances at the motion picture theaters, which is such an interesting spectacle on Broadway, Spring, Hill and Main streets at twilight. In the fading light of the day the electric signs sparkled with less brilliancy than they show when it actually is night. Like some huge disjointed monster with thousands of glaring eyes the long line of automobiles moved slowly along the streets, only a yard separating them. Street cars formed in an almost solid line along the tracks. Lights in the upper story rooms of the business blocks snapped out, one by one, like the blinking of fireflies. John looked into the faces of the throng hurrying along the sidewalks and thought how strange it was that none of them even remotely realized that an attempt to wreck the "Lark" was to be foiled within a couple of hours. The automobiles passed unnoticed in the everlasting flow of traffic. Tomorrow morning, he thought, these people would read of what had occurred and hail Gibson as a hero. The police commissioner, already the most discussed man in the city, would then be accepted unqualifiedly as a crusader not only sincere but courageous.