“Hoppy!” he called.
Through the unbroken pandemonium and the pleas of the newspaper reporters and cameramen converging upon him he heard Hoppy again, this time more distinctly: “Boss, I got him! I got him!”
“Where are you?” Simon shouted.
“Under de ring! This way!”
The great pipe organ burst into “Hail the Conquering Hero Comes” as Simon peered beneath the apron and saw, silhouetted against the supporting joists, Mr Uniatz holding down a set of kicking arms and legs by the simple expedient of sitting on the body that sprouted them.
“He gives me an argument when I don’t let him spill out de bottle,” Hoppy explained in stentorian confidence. “So I do like ya tell me.”
“Bring him out,” said the Saint.
Several score spectators crowded around, seething with excitement, while the photographers, frustrated in their efforts to get the Saint back in the ring, aimed their cameras at him crouched under the apron. Their flashbulbs went off in broadsides as Hoppy wrestled with his quarry.
The blue uniforms of policemen were converging on the spot, and over the hubbub and the pealing of the organ Simon heard the brassy tones of another familiar voice approaching.
“One side, get outta the way! One side! What’s going on here?” Inspector Fernack trumpeted as he fought his way through the crowd.