"The — the sash-cords must have broken."
"Probably that's what it was."
"Funny thing to happen so — so suddenly, wasn't it?"
"Very funny," assented Mr. Tombs, keeping up the conversation politely.
Benny began to sweat. The substitute parcel was within six inches of his hovering hands: given only two seconds with the rapt stare of those unblinking eyes diverted from him, he could have rung the changes as easily as unbuttoning his shirt; but the chance was not given. It was an impasse that he had never even dreamed of, and the necessity of thinking up something to cope with it on the spur of the moment stampeded him to the borders of panic.
"Have you got a knife?" asked Benny, with perspiring heartiness. "Something to cut off this end of string?"
"Let me break it for you," said Mr. Tombs.
He stood up and moved towards the table; and Benny shied like a horse.
"Don't bother, please, Mr. Tombs," he gulped. "I'll — I'll —"
"No trouble at all," said Mr. Tombs.