I recalled that verse of the Psalms: "Thou shalt smite him in his hinder parts and put him to shame."
Raising the long-handled shovel, I slid it quickly along the back of the top shelf and gave a powerful forward thrust as it reached the monkey.
There was a little squeak of pained surprise, a clatter of falling plates and metal, the thud of a soft body on the floor—not in the sack!—and then a brown streak crossed the linoleum in a diagonal line from dresser to door.
"Quick!" I cried. "He'll be out!"
The spirit of the chase was now burning in me like a flame. I dashed across the kitchen in wild pursuit. But it was too late.
A metallic clatter came from the pantry, another squeak, and the little brute vanished through the open window in a whirl of scurrying arms and legs.
I turned to Molly, as she hurriedly entered, and explained, simply:
"That is through not shutting the door after you."
"Has he gone, Daddy? Oh! What a shame! . . ."
She was on the verge of tears and evidently regarded the monkey's escape principally as the loss of a possible pet for herself.