The policeman took the pistol, looked at it, then at Olive, then at the captain, and then down at the body on the steps.  He was trying to get an idea of what had happened without asking.  If the negro had not been present he might have asked questions, but this was an unusual situation, and he felt his responsibility, and his importance.  Olive now stepped toward him, and in obedience to her quick gesture he bent his head, and she whispered something to him.  Instantly he was quivering with excitement.  He thrust the pistol into his pocket, and turned to the negro.  “Run,” said he, “and get your cab!  Don’t say a word to a soul and I will give you five dollars.”

The moment the negro had departed Olive said:  “Pick up that air-gun.  There, on the upper step.”  Then she went to her uncle and sat down by him.

“Are you hurt?” she said.  “Can you speak?”

The captain put his arm around her shoulder, fixing a loving look upon her, and murmured, “You are as good as a man!”

The policeman picked up the air-gun, and gazed upon it as if it had been a telegram in cipher from a detective.  Then he tried to conceal it under his coat, but it was too long.

“Let me have it,” said Olive; “I will put it behind me.”

She had barely concealed it when the cab drove up.

“Now,” said the policeman, “you two must go with me.  Can you walk, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” said the captain in a voice clear, but weak.

Olive rose, holding the air-gun behind her, and the policeman and the cabman helped the captain to the carriage.  Olive followed, and the policeman, actuated by some strong instinct, did not look around to see if she were doing so.  He had no more idea that she would run away than that the stone steps would move.  When he saw that she had taken the air-gun into the carriage with her, he closed the door.

“Did your fall hurt you, uncle?” said Olive, looking anxiously into his face.

“My throat hurts dreadfully,” he said, “and I’m stiff.  But I’ll be stiffer to-morrow.”

The policeman picked up the hat of the black-haired man, and going down the steps, he placed it on his head.  “Now help me up with this gentleman,” he said to the cabman; “we must put him on the box-seat between us.  Take him under the arms, and we’ll carry him naturally.  He must be awfully drunk!”

So they lifted him up the steps, and, after much trouble, got him on the box-seat.  Fortunately they were both big men.  Then they drove away to police headquarters.  The officer was the happiest policeman in Washington.  This was the greatest piece of work he had known of during his service; and he was doing it all himself.  With the exception of the driver, nobody else was mixed up in it in the least degree.  What he was doing was not exactly right; it was not according to custom and regulation.  He should have called for assistance, for an ambulance; but he had not, and his guardian angel had kept all foot-passengers from the steps of the public building.  He did not know what it all meant, but he was doing it himself, and if that black driver should slip from his seat (of which he occupied a very small portion) and he should break his neck, the policeman would clutch the reins, and be happier than any man in Washington.