“Leggo that thing,” said the elevator man, now wildly terrified. “Want to shoot down into the subway?” Thoroughly frenzied, Sergeant Gray pulled the lever the other way. The car stopped, trembled, ascended. For a moment two stenographers waiting on the ground floor had a vision of a strange figure in undershirt, cotton, one, and nether garments to match, surmounted by a distorted face, passing on its way to the upper floors. Sergeant Gray surrendered the lever, and ran a trembling hand across his forehead. “You’ve got to hide me somewhere,” he shouted. “Look at me!” “I see you,” said the elevator man. “Y’ought to be ashamed of yourself.” “You’ve got to hide me,” insisted Sergeant Gray; “and then you’ve got to go out and buy me some clothes.” They had reached the top floor, and the car had stopped. “I’ll tell you later. You can get me a pair of pants somewhere, can’t you?” There was pleading in his voice. Almost tears. But the tears were of rage. “I’ll lose my job if I leave this car,” observed the elevator man. He had recovered from his fright, and besides he had recognised the boy’s service hat. “Soldier, aren’t you?” “Yes. Look here, old man, I’m in a devil of a mess. Lot of our fellows, met them outside—it’s a joke. I’ll joke them!” he added vindictively. “Some fellows got a queer idea of humour,” observed the elevator man. “I might send out for you. Got any money?” The full depth of his helplessness struck Sergeant Gray then and turned him cold. His money, thirty-nine dollars and sixteen cents, was in the slicker. “They took my money too.” The elevator man’s face grew not less interested but more suspicious. “Why don’t you get a good story while you’re at it?” he demanded. “Looks like you’re running away from something.” “Great heavens, I should think I am!” “You fellows,” observed the elevator man, “think you can come to this town and raise hell and then pull some soldier stuff and get out of it. Well, you haven’t any effect on me.” The buzzer in the cage had been ringing insistently. “I’ll have to go down. Crawl out, son.” “Crawl out! Where to?” “Don’t know. Can’t let you in an office. You may find some place.” He threw open the door. “Out with you!” he commanded. “I’ll look you up later.” “Run me to the cellar,” gasped Sergeant Gray. “Tailor’s shop there. Full of girls.” With a hoarse imprecation Sergeant Gray left the elevator and scuttled down the hallway. To his maddened ears the place was full of sounds, of voices inside doorways and about to emerge, of footsteps, of hideous laughter. He had wild visions of finding a window and a roof, even of jumping off it. Then—he saw on a door the name of J. M. Booth, Photographer; and hope leaped in his heart.