“Stop!” roared George, struggling with the stupefaction that gripped him. “Stop, you young devil!”
The red-headed Pinner boy twisted the handle; was half through the door as George bounded for him.
“Par-par!” screamed the flaming head, travelling at immense speed down the passage. “Par-par! It ain't a hairship. It's a cat!”
George dashed.
“Par-par! Par-par! It's a cat!” The redheaded Pinner boy took the first short flight of stairs in a jump; rounded for the second.
George lunged over the banisters; gripped close in the flaming hair; held fast.
For a full minute in silence they poised—red-headed Pinner boy, on tip-toe as much as possible to ease the pain, in acute agony and great fear; George wildly seeking the plan that must be followed when he should release this fateful head.
Presently, with a backward pull that most horribly twisted the red-headed face: “If you speak a word I'll pull your head off,” George said. “Come up here.”
The pitiful procession reached the sitting-room. “Sit down there,” George commanded. “If you make a sound I shall probably cut your head clean off. What do you mean by hiding in my room?”
Between gusty pain and terror: “I thought it was a hairship.”