“Where’d this chap jump out? If yer don’t tell me, I’ll arrest you instead.”
“Awright, yer Royal ‘Ighness! Don’t lose yer ‘air. Why didn’t yer sye yer was a cop at fust. H’I’m lookin’ fer ‘im as much as you are. I want ‘im wery bad. You and me’s friends.”
“Friends! I choose me own friends. I’m a respeckable man, I am. Tell me quickly, where’d ‘e jump out?”
Mr. Grace removed his hat and scratched his head. “Of h’all the fiery blokes I h’ever met, you taik the biscuit, me chap. ‘E h’excused hisself darn there by the pub and the trams. I ‘ears the door o’ me keb a-bangin’. I looks round and, lo, ‘e’d wanished in the crards.”
The detective waited to hear no more, but set off running down the Crescent. As he dwindled in the darkness, Mr. Grace called after him, “Me and Cat’s Meat’ll miss yer—so agreeable yer were. Merry Christmas, ole pal.” Then, in a lower voice to Peter, “Yer kin forget the smallspecks, young ‘un. Yer——”
But Peter had leapt to the pavement and slipped through the gateway under the sign To Let. “Uncle. Uncle. He’s gone. Hurry.”
He listened. The shrubbery about him rustled. He looked up at the empty windows, wondering if Uncle Waffles had got inside the house. He was a little frightened; the darkness was so desperate and lonely. He called more loudly. “Uncle. Uncle. Make haste.”
Then he heard a sound of shuffling and something stirred beneath the steps. He ran forward and seized the man’s coat—it was sodden—dragging him through the garden toward the road. It was strange that so small a boy should take command of a grown man.
“You won’t give me up, Peter, will you?”
Give him up! That was likely! Fancy Peter allowing anyone to suffer if he could prevent it! Why, Peter, when Romance’s kittens were to be drowned, would steal them away and hide them. He couldn’t bear that anything should be wounded or dead. He pushed his uncle into the cab and, before following, held a whispered consultation with Mr. Grace.