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His driver had jumped down from his seat and was scuttling madly up the street. In a breath P. Sybarite realised what was the matter: as automatics will, when hot with fast firing, November's had choked on an empty shell. With a sob of excitement the little man lowered his weapon and flung himself upon the gang leader.
To a chorus of yells November's driver shut down the brakes not a thought too soon not soon enough, indeed, to avoid a collision that crumpled a mudguard as though it had been a thing of pasteboard. Simultaneously P. Sybarite's chauffeur set the brakes, and with the agility of a hounded rabbit seeking its burrow, dived from his seat to the side of the car farthest from the gangsters.
Testimony in support of this inference P. Sybarite received within the next few minutes, when the boy's temper abruptly veered from good-natured obduracy to open irritation. "Damn it, no!" he cried in a high voice and with an impatient movement struck the glass from November's hand.
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