outs with the old equalizer and starts blasting away, and what does Spanish John do but
get his out, too, and open up.
The next thing anybody knows, the two coppers are down on the ground with slugs in
them, but other coppers are coming from every which direction, blowing whistles and
doing a little blasting themselves, and there is plenty of excitement, especially when the
coppers who are not chasing Harry the Horse and Little Isadore and Spanish John start
poking around the neighbourhood and find Harry's pal, the watchman, all tied up nice and
tight where Harry leaves him, and the watchman explains that some scoundrels blow
open the safe he is watching.
All this time Big Butch and me are walking in the other direction toward Seventh
Avenue, and Big Butch has John Ignatius in his arms, and John Ignatius is now squalling
very loud indeed. The chances are he is still thinking of the big whoom back there which
tickles him so and is wishing to hear some more whooms. Anyway, he is beating his own
best record for squalling, and as we go walking along Big Butch says to me like this:
'I dast not run,' he says, 'because if any coppers see me running they will start popping at
me and maybe hit John Ignatius Junior, and besides running will joggle the milk up in
him and make him sick. My old lady always warns me never to joggle John Ignatius
Junior when he is full of milk.'
'Well, Butch,' I say, 'there is no milk in me, and I do not care if I am joggled up, so if you
do not mind, I will start doing a piece of running at the next corner.'
But just then around the corner of Seventh Avenue toward which we are headed comes
two or three coppers with a big fat sergeant with them, and one of the coppers, who is
half-out of breath as if he has been doing plenty of sprinting, is explaining to the sergeant
that somebody blows a safe down the street and shoots a couple of coppers in the
getaway.
And there is Big Butch, with John Ignatius Junior in his arms and twenty G's in his shirt
front and a tough record behind him, walking right up to them.
I am feeling very sorry, indeed, for Big Butch, and very sorry for myself, too, and I am
saying to myself that if I get out of this I will never associate with anyone but ministers of
the gospel as long as I live. I can remember thinking that I am getting a better break than
Butch, at that, because I will not have to go to Sing Sing for the rest of my life, like him,
and I also remember wondering what they will give John Ignatius Junior, who is still
tearing off these squalls, with Big Butch saying, 'There, there, there, Daddy's itty
woogleurns.' Then I hear one of the coppers say to the fat sergeant:
'We better nail these guys. They may be in on this.'