“There are heaps,” said Reggie precipitously.
“I think none. Talking of Longridge, he is supposed to be perfecting a plan by which, as you walk up to your door you tread on a spring, and the door flies open. He says it is so tiresome to open a door when your hands are full. And his hands always are full.”
“It sounds very pleasant,” said Reggie. “Has he tried it yet?”
“Only once. That time his door was already open, and when he trod on the spring, it shut with, I believe, quite incredible violence and knocked all his books out of his hands, besides hurting him very much and breaking his spectacles. You’d think that would stop him? Not a bit. He merely rose on the stepping-stone of his dead self to higher things. It only gave him another new idea. He is going to have a second spring inside the door, which, when trodden on will shut it again after you. At least that’s what he means to do, when he is fit to walk about again. At present he is incapacitated. I went to see him yesterday; his nose is in splints. I am so glad I haven’t an ingenious mind.”
“I wouldn’t be Longridge’s bed-maker, if I was paid for it.”
“Bed-makers are paid for it,” said the Babe. “Besides, as he truly says, if you can have a dumb waiter why not have a dumb bed-maker made of some stronger material?”
“He never said anything of the kind, Babe,” said Ealing.
“My dear chap, he has said lots of things of the kind. You force me to contradict you. He hardly ever says anything of any other kind.”
“Babe, will you or will you not come out?” demanded Reggie.
“I will not come out. I’m not going to spoil my tea by going for a horrid walk.”