"'Allow me,' he answered, and promptly wrung my hand. 'I ought
t'have warned you--I always run in circles, this condish'n.
Bad habit: never could break myself. 'Scuse me; haven't been drunk
for years.' He pulled himself up and eyed me earnestly. 'Wha's your
suggest'n under shirkumstanches? Retrace steps?'
"'As I figure it out,' said I, sweet and reasonable, 'that also would
lead us back to the 'Catalafina.''
"'Quite so,' he agreed, nodding back as I nodded. 'Case hopelesh,
then. No posh'ble way out.'
"'Well, I don't know,' said I. 'If we go straight on until we find a
turning to the left. . . . And look here,' I put in, grabbing him
again, for he was starting to run. 'Since there's no one in chase
apparently, I suggest that we walk. It looks better, if we meet a
constable: though there seems to be none about ... so far.'
"'Scand'lous!' said Farrell.
"'What's scandalous?' I asked.
"'Lax'ty Metr'pl't'n P'lice.' He took me by a buttonhole, finger and
thumb. 'Dish--district notorious. One-worst-Lond'n. Dish--damn the
word--distr'ck like this, anything might happen any moment.
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