Mrs. Phelan’s son came a-running.
He had been on his way. The vast girthed individual in the pink striped pajamas and tasselled nightcap had accomplished his awful purpose, but the climax had been anti-climax and Phelan had ground his teeth in rage.
He had been on the point of bursting through the window and somehow scrambling aloft to the rescue of that helpless being who was being ground and wrenched and pounded by that porcine monster, when the monster suddenly rose to view again with a dumb-bell in each hand.
The jaw of Officer 666 slowly dropped as he watched the manipulation of the dumb-bells. There was no passion in the stodgy movements of the great paddy arms. Even so far away as he was Phelan could see that the man puffed and blew and that his vigor was slowly waning. Then suddenly the huge man stooped and held up in plain view a dangling wrestling dummy.
The lone watcher swallowed a savage oath.
“Sure ’twas exercisin’ an’ not murther he was doin’,” Phelan hissed through his teeth.
His anger was white hot. Again he had been the victim of delusion and had wasted heroic emotions on a stuffed dummy that served merely as an inanimate instrument in a course of anti-fat calisthenics.
Every nerve in Phelan’s body was fairly a-bristle 216 as he made his way upstairs and burst into the great drawing-room and picture gallery.
“Fer the love o’ hivin,” he cried, “give me me uniform and let me out o’ here.”
“Here’s your uniform; I’ve had enough of it,” replied Gladwin, throwing him the coat and cap, “and get into it quick. There’s work for you right in this house.”