"The police chief will be delighted at having a good, close look
at Fred Radwin!"
At that moment loud yells and coarse cries broke from the eight or ten
young men down the street. Then fist-blows sounded.
"Mine's a Chinaman's luck," grunted Jack Benson, disgustedly. "Only a
gang of drunken hoodlums down there. They'd stand in with anything
that is against the police. No use depending on such human cattle."
Jack, in fact, grasped the significance of the new riot a little before
Fred Radwin did. The submarine boy, therefore, wheeled and ran swiftly
toward the fighting hoodlums, though wholly intent on getting past
them.
Radwin, believing that the young skipper was racing for help, dragged
his driver-companion roughly, swiftly along, finally pushing him inside
the hack. Then Radwin leaped to the box, gathered up the reins, and
was away like a flash.
The young submarine skipper, from what he knew of hoodlum street crowds,
hurried by on the other side. Two blocks further along Benson
encountered a tardy policeman. Knowing that it was now too late to hope
to catch Fred Radwin, Jack contented himself with inquiring the way back
to the Somerset House, where he arrived, after a long walk, still
carrying the whip as his trophy of the late encounter.
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