The standard toppled forward from his grasp, and its late bearer turned quickly aside.  As he turned Wilbur Cowan reached forward to close a hand about the corduroy collar.  Then he pulled.  The standard bearer came back easily to a sitting posture on the asphalt.  The crowd was close in, noisily depriving other bearers of their standards.  The Internationale had become blurred and discordant, like a bad phonograph record.  The parade still came to break and flow about the obstruction.

Wilbur Cowan jerked his prize up and whirled him about.  He contemplated further atrocities.  But the pallid face of his brother was now revealed to him.

“Look out there!” he warned the crowd, and a way was opened.

He drew back on the corduroy collar, then sent it forward with a mighty shove.  His captive shot through the opening, fell again to the pavement, but was up and off before those nearest him could devise further entertainment.  Among other accomplishments Merle had been noted in college for his swiftness of foot.  He ran well, heading for the north, skillfully avoiding those on the outskirts of the crowd who would have tackled him.  Wilbur Cowan watched him out of sight, beyond the area of combat.  Then he worked his own way from it and stood to watch the further disintegration of the now leaderless parade.

The tumult died, the crowd melted away.  Policemen became officious.  From areaways up and down the Avenue forms emerged furtively, walked discreetly to corners and skurried down side streets.  Here and there a crimson banner flecked the asphalt.  Steve and the tall private issued from the last scrimmage, breathing hard.

“Nothing to it!” said the tall private.  “Only I skun my knuckles.”

“I was aimin’ a wallop at that general,” complained Steve, “but something blew him right out of my hand.  Come on up to Madison Avenoo.  I heard they was goin’ to save America up there, too.”

“Can’t,” said Wilbur.  “Got to see a man.”

“Well, so long, Buck!”

He waved to them as they joined the northward moving crowd.

“Gee, gosh!” he said.

* * * * *

“No, sir; Mr. Whipple hasn’t come in yet.  He just sent word he wouldn’t be back at all to-night,” said the spectacled hall boy.  But his manner was so little ingenuous that once again the hand of Wilbur Cowan closed itself eloquently about the collar of a jacket.

“Get into that elevator and let me out at his floor.”

“You let me alone!” said the hall boy.  “I was going to.”

He knocked a third time before he could hear a faint call.  He opened the door.  Beyond a dim entrance hall the light fell upon his brother seated at a desk, frowning intently at work before him.  The visible half of him was no longer in corduroy.  It was incased in a smoking jacket of velvet, and his neck was conventionally clad in collar and cravat.  The latter had been hastily tied.