Remembering Penfield’s revolver, he made sure it was safe and handy in his pocket; then strode in and dropped an imperative hand on the policeman’s shoulder.

“Here—­wake up!” he cried; and shook him rudely.

The fellow stirred, grunted, and lifted a bemused, red countenance to the breaker of rest.

“Hello!” he said in dull perception of a stranger.  “What’s—­row?”

“Get up—­pull yourself together!” P. Sybarite ordered sternly.  “You ’re liable to be broke for this!”

“Broke?” The officer’s eyes widened, but remained cloudy with sleep, drink, and normal confusion.  “Where’s Jimmy?  Who’re you?”

“Never mind me.  Look to yourself.  This place is being raided.”

“Raided!” The man leaped to his feet with a cry.  “G’wan!  It ain’t possible!”

“Listen, if you don’t believe me.”

The crashing of the axes and the grumble of the curious crowd assembled in the street were distinctly audible.  The officer needed no other confirmation; and yet—­instant by instant it became more clearly apparent that he had drunk too deeply to be able to think for himself.  Standing with a hand on the table, he rocked to and fro until, losing his balance, he sat down heavily.

“My Gawd!” he cried.  “I’m done for!”

“Nonsense!  No more than I—­unless you’re too big a fool to take a word of advice.  Here—­off with your coat.”

“What’s that?”

“I say, off with your coat, man—­and look sharp!  Get it off and I’ll hide it while you slip into one of those waiter’s jackets over there.  Then, if they find us here, we can pretend to be employees.  You understand?”

“We’ll get pinched, all the same,” the man objected stupidly.

“Well, if we do, it only means a trip to the Night Court, and a fine of five or ten dollars.  You’ll be up to-morrow for absence from post, of course, but that’s better than being caught half-drunk in the basement of a gambling house on your beat.”

Impressed, the officer started to unbutton his tunic, but hesitated.

“S’pose some of the boys recognise me?”

“Where are your wits?” demanded P. Sybarite in exasperation.  “This isn’t a precinct raid!  You ought to know that.  This is Whitman, going over everybody’s head.  Anyhow, it can’t be worse for you than it is—­and my way gives you a fighting chance to get off.”

“Guess you ’re right,” mumbled the other thickly, shrugging out of his coat and surrendering it.

Several white jackets hung from hooks on the wall near the door.  Seizing one of these, the policeman had it on in a jiffy.

“Now what’ll I do?” he pursued, as P. Sybarite, the blue coat over his arm, grabbed the police cap and started for the door.

“Do?  How do I know?  Use your own head for a while.  Pull yourself together—­cut some bread—­do something useful—­make a noise like a steward—­”