Part 25 (1/2)

”There, there!” says she. ”You mustn't speak that way of Hadley. He is only a little boy, you know.”

”Yes'm,” says I.

”And he was only indulging in innocent play,” she goes on. ”Come, Hadley, untie me now. Please, Hadley!”

Say, I hadn't noticed it before, but the old girl is roped solid, feet and arms, to the chair legs, and it's clear that when n.o.body was goin'

by for little Hadley to shoot at he'd been usin' Aunty for a target. The damp spots on the wall behind the chair and one or two on her dress showed that.

”I won't, unless you'll call Maggie and have her throw him out!” growls Hadley.

”Oh, come, Hadley, be a good boy!” coaxes Aunty.

”Sha'n't!” says Hadley. ”And next time I'll shoot ink at you.”

”Now, Hadley!” protests Aunty.

”Excuse me, lady,” says I, ”but it looks to me like there was something comin' to Hadley that I ought to tend to. This ain't on my account, either, but yours. Now watch. Hi, freshy!” and I makes another dash for him.

Well, he knows the lay of the land better'n I do, and he's quick on the dodge, so we has a lively time of it for a couple of minutes, him throwin' chairs in my way and hurdlin' sofas, Aunty beggin' us to quit and callin' for Maggie, and me keepin' right on the job. But at last I got him cornered. He makes a desp'rate duck and tries to b.u.t.t me; but I catches his head under my arm and down he goes on the rug. I'd just yanked the squirt gun out of his hand and was emptyin' it down the back of his neck, with him hollerin' blue murder, and Aunty strugglin' to get loose, when the front door opens and in walks a couple of ladies, one old and the other young.

And, say, you talk about your excitin' tableaux! In about two shakes there's all kinds of excitement; for it seems one of the new arrivals is Hadley's mommer, and she proceeds to join the riot.

”Oh, my darling boy! My darling!” she sings out. ”What is happening! He is being killed! Oh, he is being killed!”

”G'wan!” says I, gettin' up and exhibitin' the squirt gun. ”I was only handin' him some of the same sport he's been dealin' out to others.

It'll do him good.”

”You--you young scoundrel!” says mommer. Then, turnin' to the old lady who came in with her, she gasps out, ”Zen.o.bia, telephone for the police!”

It's the real thing, too, and no flossy bluff about the lady's grouch.

She's a swell, haughty-lookin' party, and she acts like she was used to havin' her own way about things. So the prospects begin to look squally.

Not that I'm one to curl up and s.h.i.+ver at sight of a cop. Give me plenty of room to do the hotfoot act, and I don't mind guyin' any of them pavement-pounders; but with me shut up in a house where I hadn't been invited in, and a bunch of excited females as witnesses against me, it's a diff'rent proposition. This was no time to weaken, though.

”Go ahead,” says I. ”Double six-O-four-two Gramercy; that's the green light number for this district. And Uncle Patrick'll be glad to see you.

Tell him you got charges to make on his nephew. That'll tickle him to death. Maybe I'll have something to say when we all get there, too.”

”What do you mean?” says Hadley's mother.

”Counter complaint, that's all,” says I. ”Your little darling soaked me first.”

”It--it isn't true!” says she. ”I don't believe it!”

And here Zen.o.bia comes in with the soothin' advice. She's another whitehaired old lady, lookin' something like the one in the chair, only not so bulky and with more ginger about her. ”Now, Sally,” says she, ”let's not talk of calling in the police over a trifle. Hadley doesn't appear to be hurt, and possibly he was somewhat at fault.”

”The idea!” says Sally. ”Why, I saw this young ruffian pommeling him.

And look! Martha is bound in her chair. He's a burglar!”

Oh, they had a great debate amongst 'em, Aunt Martha fin'lly admittin'