Perspiring, panting from running, the excited negro breathlessly began again to stammer out fragmentary details of what he had heard about the uprising of blacks scheduled for that afternoon.
"Calm yerself, me boy," the arm of the law admonished him. emphasizing his words, by pulling an imaginary trigger oil the pencil stub which he held in his fat fingers. "Are yez gone clean crazy? Or is ut moonshine in ye that's talkin'? Slower, me lad. Now, phwat is ut ye want? Spake out."
"The Great Panjandrum!" George Washington blurted out.
Three or four coppers had strolled into the office. They listened with amused contempt to George Washington's recital.
"Phwat in the world are ye talkin' about?" continued the desk sergeant, implacably. "Has the Great Pan-what-ye-call-him shtolen anything from ye? Is he tryin' to murder ye? Hand us his name and we'll book him for ye, if ut's as serious as all that. Out with ut, mo boy. Phwat's bitin' ye? ' Who are ye, anyway?"
"Jawge Washin'ton," stammered the unhappy negro, and attempted to resume his narration.
The listeners broke into coarse laughter.
"My regards to your wife, Martha Washington, old top." said a tall, cadaverous copper, jocularly giving George a slap, on the back, that almost bowled him over.
"She's at home hangin' out the washin'," said George, meekly, interrupting his narrative, again.
The outburst that greeted this reply wounded his pride. He felt aggrieved. He was trying to help the forces of law and order, but they were giving him the horse laugh.
"Silence!" roared the desk sergeant, glaring at the disorderly coppers with outraged dignity. "Where d'ye think ye are, at home?"
The hilarity subsided into baritone giggles.
"Where do ye live?" obstinately continned the desk sergeant, holding the pencil as if it were a pistol, and taking careful aim with it at George's breast. "On Fo'tieth street, jes' off Cottage Grove avenue, your Honor," George replied.
The hilarity broke out afresh, with unprecedented violence, at the title George so innocently bestowed on the desk sergeant, and that dignitary shot glances of fierce anger at the recalcitrant policemen. If looks were daggers, the coppers would have died on the instant.
"Ah lives in de fo'th house f'um de corner, in de rear."
"Well, phwat do ye want? Why don't ye spake up? Who is this Great Panhandler; or what d'ye call him?"
"De Great Panjandrum," George corrected him. "He's a pusson, suh. Dey's a parade of soldyahs, suh, at 2 o'clock dis aftahnoon. Dey want a bonus or sumpin. An' dey's gwine be trouble."
"Trouble, is ut? Well, bejabers, them boys have a police permit to parade, and if anyone shtarts trouble—"
Here the sergeant took careful aim with his pencil, and again pulled the airy trigger, three times, as if shooting somebody.
"But phwat's all this got to do with the Great Panjabers? Out with ut, now. Phwat's wrong?"
"De Great Panjandrum done lib on Federal street," went on George Washington, desperately. "Two dohs no'th f'um Thirty-second, on de uppah story. An' he's gwine organize a cullud republic. Yes, suh, dat's jes' wot he's callatin' fo' to do. An' hit means
