It ain't one of these big, vulgar barber poles, you know; not over four feet long and about as many inches thick. But it's a brilliant one, and with Barry in evenin' dress he's bound to be some conspicuous luggin' it. Yet I starts him straight up Broadway, me trailin' 25 or 30 feet behind. If it had been further up town he might have collected quite a mob of followers, but down here there's only a few passing at that time of night. Most of 'em only turns to look after him and smile. One or two gives him the merry hail and asks where the Class of 1910 is holdin' the banquet. He'd done nearly five blocks before a flatfoot steps out of a doorway and waves a nightstick at him. "Hey, whaddye mean, pullin' that hick stuff?" demands the cop. "Sir!" says Barry, wavin' him off dignified. Then I mixes in. "It's perfectly all right, officer," says I. "I know him." "Oh, do you?" says the cop. "Well, some of you army guys know a lot; and then again some of you don't. But you can't get away with any such cut-up motions on my beat." "But listen," I begins, "I can explain how----" "Ah, feed it to the sergeant," says he. "Come along, you," and he takes Barry by the arm. Being a quiet night in the precinct the desk sergeant had plenty of time to listen. He'd just decided against Barry, too, when I sprung my scrap of paper on him. It's a receipt in full for one barber's pole, signed by Otto Krumpheimer. I knew it was O. K. because I'd signed it myself. "How about that?" asks the sergeant of the cop. And all the flatty can do is gaze at it and scratch his head. "No case," says the sergeant. "Beat it, you." Then I nudges Barry. He speaks up prompt, too. "I want my little barber pole," says he. "Ah, take it along," says the sergeant, disgusted. "Sorry, officer," says I, as we drifts out, and I slips him a five casual. "Enjoy yourselves, boys," says he. "But pick out another beat." Which we done. This time we starts from the Northumberland and walks east. Barry had got almost to Madison Avenue before another eagle-eyed copper holds him up. He does it more or less rough, too. "Drop that, now!" says he. "Certainly not," says Barry, lyin' enthusiastic. "It's my pole." "Is it, then?" says the cop. "Maybe you can show the sergeant yet? And maybe I don't know where you pinched it. Walk along, now." You should have seen the desk sergeant grow purple in the gills when we shows up in front of the rail the second time. "Say, what do you sports think you're doin', anyway?" he demands. "I'll make a charge of petty larceny and disorderly conduct," says the cop, layin' the evidence on the desk. "Will you, Myers?" says the sergeant sarcastic. "Didn't ask him if he had a receipt, I suppose? Show it to him, lieutenant." I grins and hands over the paper. "Hah!" grunts Myers. "But Otto Krumpheimer don't sign his name like that. Never." "How do you know?" says I.