The policeman tapped the stout young man on the shoulder.
“This won’t do, you know!” he said austerely. “This sort o’ thing won’t do ‘ere, you know!”
“Take your hands off me!” snorted Percy.
A frown appeared on the Olympian brow. Jove reached for his thunderbolts.
“Ullo! "Ullo! ’Ullo!” he said in a shocked voice, as of a god defied by a mortal. “’Ullo! ’Ullo! ’Ullo!”
His fingers fell on Percy’s shoulder again, but this time not in a mere warning tap. They rested where they fell, in an iron clutch.
“It won’t do, you know!” he said. “This sort o’ thing won’t do!”
Madness came upon the stout young man. Common prudence and the lessons of a carefully taught youth fell from him like a garment. With an incoherent howl he wriggled round and punched the policeman smartly in the stomach.
“Ho!” quote the outraged officer, suddenly becoming human. His left hand removed itself from the belt, and he got a business-like grip on his adversary’s collar. “Well, you come along with me!”
It was amazing. The thing had happened in such an incredibly brief space of time. One moment, it seemed to George, he was the center of a nasty row in one of the most public spots in London; the next, the focus had shifted; he had ceased to matter, and the entire attention of the metropolis was focused on his late assailant, as, urged by the arm of the law, he made that journey to Vine Street Police Station which so many a better man than he had trod.
George watched the pair as they moved up the Hay-
