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They're bein' fed on iron-filin's an' dog-biscuit these days, but glory's no compensation for a belly-ache. Praise be, we're here to protect you, sorr. Mother av Moses, but ye take the field like a confectioner! 'Tis scand'lus. 'Ere's a orficer, said Ortheris significantly. 'When the sergent's done lushin' the privit may clean the pot.
His momentum threw him with a crash and may have spared him a worse mishap; for in the same breath he heard the report of a pistol and knew that Popinot had fired at his fugitive shadow. As he brought one heel down with crushing force on the sergent's wrist, freeing his foot, he was dimly conscious of the voice of the commissaire shouting frantic prayers to cease firing.
The first received a half-arm jab on the point of his chin that jarred his entire system, and without in the least understanding how it happened, found himself whirled around and laid prostrate in the commissaire's path. The latter tripped, fell, and planted two hard knees, with the bulk of his weight atop them, on the apex of the sergent's paunch.
They're bein' fed on iron-filin's an' dog-biscuit these days, but glory's no compensation for a belly-ache. Praise be, we're here to protect you, sorr. Mother av Moses, but ye take the field like a confectioner! 'Tis scand'lus." "'Ere's a orficer," said Ortheris, significantly. "When the sergent's done lushin' the privit may clean the pot."
For the present, however, Lanyard wasn't taking any. He met that challenge with a look of utter stupidity, folded his arms, lounged against the desk, and watched Madame Omber acknowledge, none too cordially, the other sergent's query. "I am Madame Omber yes. What can I do for you?" The sergent gaped. "Pardon!" he stammered, then laughed as one who tardily appreciates a joke.
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