Still he surged
heavily along, tired Nature with tuneful charms sweetly restoring.
As he wound off a tender tribute to the virtues of the Ancient Tray, and
was about sounding the opening notes of a requiem over the memory of the
lost African Lily, surnamed Dale, one o'clock was announced by the bell of
the Lynde-Street Church. Mr. Smithers's heart warmed a little at the
thought of speedy respite from his midnight toil, and with hastening step
he approached Chambers Street, and came within range of his relief post. He
paused a moment upon the corner, and gazed around. It is the peculiar
instinct of a policeman to become suspicious at every corner.
Nothing stirring. Silence everywhere. He listens acutely. No sound. He
strains his eyes to penetrate the misty atmosphere. He is satisfied that
order reigns. He prepares to resume his march, and the measure of his
melancholy chant.
Three seconds more, and Policeman Smithers is another being. Now his hand
convulsively grasps his staff; his foot falls lightly on the pavement; his
carol is changed to a quick, sharp inhalation of the breath; for directly
before him, just visible through the fog, a figure, lightly clad, leans
from a window close upon the street, then clambers noiselessly upon the
sill, leaps over, and dashes swiftly down Chambers Street, disappearing in
the darkness.
Gathering himself well together, in an instant, Mr. Smithers is off and
away in pursuit. His heavy rubber-boots spatter over the bricks with an
echo that startles the sober residents from their slumbers.
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