"My dear Mr. Baxter, that's exactly what it was," said the curate.
Lionel slapped his knee vigorously. "Parker! By Jove! Five to one it was Parker!"
The curate's eyes blinked with amazement. "Bless my soul! How did you know that?"
"Oh, I just put two and two together," drawled Lionel, "and it made Parker."
"Fortunately Parker didn't see me," continued Horatio, "and as he reached down for another bottle I slipped back into the passage and behind the door. It was a dreadful moment. You may not believe it, I suppose I was a little unstrung, but I had an uncontrollable desire to laugh. I pressed my hands over my mouth, but I fear that only made it worse—it was like new wine in an old bottle—I simply exploded."
"Horatio! You didn't laugh?" exclaimed Harriet.
"My dear Harriet, it burst through my fingers. You have often complained of my laugh, Harriet, but this was much worse. It must have sounded like that strange cry of the American natives."
Bob looked up, puzzled. "American natives?"
"I take it so," replied Horatio. "I heard it once at Earl's Court at the Wild West Show. It is apparently produced by a rapid oscillation of the palm of the hand against the mouth while enunciating with great force the sound of the fifth vowel."
Bob laughed uproariously. "Oh, yes, of course! That's the sound the squaws make when they go shopping on Broadway."