Mr. Slint purrs on about his patience and perseverance. Suddenly there is a stir on the right of the line; there has been an accident; Edward’s wheels are locked with the careless four-wheeler’s on his left. A scurry, a sharp cry from Mr. Slint and Edward has disappeared.
Mr. Slint acts promptly. The door of the tent is barred. He announces to the cowering spectators that a valuable artiste is missing and that those present are to be searched before leaving. (He suspects foul play.)
Suddenly he makes a dart at the M.F. and from her shoulder—oh, horror!—he takes a Thing. “Larceny!” he cries; “I mean abduction. Quick Bert, the police.”
The Paterfamilias. Spare her, sir. She is a mother.
A policeman (entering). Now then, what’s this ’ere?
Mr. S. (moved by who knows what chivalrous impulse). Madam, I have wronged you. This is not Edward. It is one of yours. (He replaces the Thing.)
The M.F. (shrieking). Oh, oh! The shame of it!
Reginald. I know, mother! Put it on the table. If it’s Edward it will walk: if it’s one of—if it’s not, it will hop.
The Thing is placed solemnly upon the table. All crowd around and watch for the issue. The flea does not walk. On the other hand it does not hop. Nothing happens. The flea is dead.
So no one will ever know.