Heberdon was frisked and his g*n taken from him. Forming in procession, they wended their way out of the yard and back up the line toward the street crossing where the automobiles had been left. Midway in the procession walked the chauffeur with his hand in Heberdon’s collar. This connection was in sharp contrast to all of Heberdon’s former relations with taxicab drivers.
The men, still heated with excitement, talked about Heberdon as if he were an inanimate object or were not there at all. They displayed no particular animus against him, but in a way were almost kindly disposed as to one who had furnished the excuse for a madly exciting and successful man hunt.
“Gee! If he’d kept on to the river, we’d never have got him. He could have slipped on a ferry.”
“Aw, they always do the wrong
