Burke, and we'll nab that woman as a
material witness."

Burke and his superior crossed the street and quickly entered the
ornate portal of Shultberger's cabaret, which was in reality the annex
to his corner barroom.

As they strode in a waiter stood by a tuneless piano, upon which a
bloated "professor" was beating a tattoo of cheap syncopation
accompaniment of the advantages of "Bobbin' Up An' Down," which was
warbled with that peculiarly raucous, nasal tenor so popular in
Tenderloin resorts. The musical waiter's jaw fell in the middle of a
bob, as he espied the blue uniforms.

He disappeared behind a swinging door with the professional skill of a
stage magician.

Sitting around the dilapidated wooden tables was a motley throng of
red-nosed women, loafers, heavy-jowled young aliens, and a scattering
of young girls attired in cheap finery; a prevailing color of chemical
yellow as to hair, and flaming red cheeks and lips.

Instinctively the gathering rose for escape, but the sergeant strode
forward to one particular table, where sat a girl nursing a bleeding
mouth.

Burke remained by the door to shut off that exit.

"Is this the one?" asked the sergeant, as he put his hands on the young
woman's shoulder.

Burke scrutinized her closely, responding quickly.

"Yes!"

"Come on, you," ordered the roundsman. "I want you. Quick!"

"Say, I ain't done a thing, what do ye want me fer?" whined the girl,
as the sergeant pulled at her sleeve. The officer did not reply, but
he looked menacingly about him at the evil company.

"If any of you guys starts anything I'm going to call out the reserves.
Come on, Annie."

The proprietor, Shultberger, now entered from the front, after a
warning from his waiter.

"Vot's dis, sergeant? Vot you buttin' in my place for? Ain't I in
right?" he cried.

"Shut up. This girl has been assaulting an officer, and I want her.
Come on, now, or I'll get the wagon here, and then there will be
trouble."

Annie began to pull back, and it looked as though some of the toughs
would interfere. But Shultberger understood his business.

"Now, Annie, don't start nottings here. Go on vid de officer. I'll
fix it up all right. But I don't vant my place down on de blotter.
Who vas it--Jimmie?"

The girl began to cry, and gulped the glass of whiskey on the table as
she finally yielded to the tug of the sergeant.

"Yes, it's Jimmie. An' he wasn't doin' a ting. Dese rookies is always