Hoppy moved nervously aside as the Saint went to the front door and taped one of the two strands of the lamp cord against the metal door-knob. He watched in silent wonder as the Saint unrolled a length of copper wire, wound the spool end a couple of times around the radiator pipe, and slipped the other end under the door until it projected a foot into the hall outside.
“All right, Hoppy, give me the bottle.”
Simon stepped outside and carefully poured the water on the tile floor in front of his door so that the protruding wire lay in a shallow puddle. He went a couple of paces down the corridor, turned, and studied the approach to the living-room door, then came back.
“Boss,” Hoppy sighed, voicing his perennial complaint. “I don’t get it.”
“You will,” said the Saint.
He fastened the other bared end of the drop cord to the radiator with another strip of adhesive and carefully closed the door. Finally he pushed the plug into a nearby baseboard outlet, and turned to Hoppy. “Well,” he said, “there it is.”
Hoppy stared at the closed door, and his lucubratory processes, oozing like a glutinous stream between narrow banks, at last achieved a spreading delta of cognition. A slow enchanted grin dissolved his facial fog like sunlight on a jungle swamp.
“Chees, boss,” he said in awesome incredulity, “I do get it.”
“Congratulations.”
“In case de zombies you’re expectin’ should touch de doorknob,” Hoppy deduced triumphantly. His eyes were worshipful. “Ya even got de water puddle grounded, huh?”