Part 19 (1/2)

Tidman takes it out by droppin' a book.

”A dangerous character, we think, sir,” says the butler--”most likely one of a gang of burglars. Mrs. Flynn found him lurking in the coal-bin on account of his having sneezed, sir. Then she grappled him, sir.”

”Oh, dear!” groans Tidman, his face goin' putty-colored.

”The deuce!” says Waldo. ”And you say the laundress has him--er--”

”Quite secure, sir,” says Peters. ”Both hands in his hair and she sitting on his chest, sir.”

”But--but this can't go on indefinitely,” says Waldo. ”I suppose something ought to be done about it.”

”I should suggest sending for the police, sir,” says Peters.

”Bother!” says Waldo. ”That means my going to police court, and having the thing in the papers, and-- Why, Tidman, what's the matter?”

The tutor sure was takin' it hard. His thin, bony fingers are clutchin' the chair arm desperate, clammy drops are startin' out on his brow, and his narrow-set eyes are starin' at Peters.

”She's such a heavy female--Mrs. Flynn,” groans Tidman. ”Right on his chest, too!”

”Better that than having him wake us up in the middle of the night flouris.h.i.+ng firearms and demanding valuables,” says Waldo.

”Ugh! Burglars. How--how silly of them to come here! It's so disturbing, and I do dread having the police in. I wish you wouldn't look so ghastly over it, Tidman. Come, suggest something.”

But Tidman don't seem to be a good suggester. ”Both hands in his hair.

Oh!” he mutters.

”It's not your hair,” sputters Waldo. ”And saying idiotic things like that doesn't help. Not a bit. Must I call the police, or what?”

”The police!” whispers Tidman, hoa.r.s.e and husky.

”But what else can I do?” demands Waldo. Then he turns to me. ”I say, can you think of anything?”

”Seems to me I'd have a look at the gent first,” says I. ”Mistakes sometimes happen, you know, in the best regulated bas.e.m.e.nts. Might be just a man takin' the meters, or a plumber, or something like that.”

”By George, that's so!” says T. Waldo, chirkin' up. ”But--er--must I go down there? Suppose he should be a burglar, after all?”

”We'd be three to one, not countin' Mrs. Flynn,” says I.

”Would you help, really?” he asks eager. ”You see, I'm not very strong. And Tidman--well, you can't count much on him. Besides, how does one know a burglar by sight?”

”They don't wear uniforms, that's a fact,” says I; ”but I might ask him what he was doin' down there and call for proof. Then, if he was only takin' the meter, why--”

”Of course,” says Waldo. ”We will--er--you'll do that for me, will you not? Come along, Tidman. You too, Peters. We'll just find out who the fellow is.”

I must say, it's kind of a draggy rush line they formed, Tidman havin'

to be almost pushed, and Peters keepin' well in the rear. I finds myself leadin' the a.s.sault, with Waldo a bad second, but tellin' me which turns to make and urgin' Tidman to follow close.

Sure enough, though, there on the laundry floor we discovers the victorious Mrs. Flynn, a wide, husky party, with something flattened underneath. About all that's visible is a pair of run-over shoes and part of a coat sleeve that's been ripped off. She seems glad to see us.

”Thanks be!” says she, sighin' grateful. ”It's faint and wake I am strugglin' with this murderous little shrimp. Ah, squirm, will ye!