"Who? How the blazes do I know? How? Why, just took it, of course. How does anybody steal anything? When? When nobody was looking, madam. That's my conclusion."
Mr. Witherbee glared truculently at his spouse.
"But why didn't the thing go off?" asked Gertrude in a mystified voice.
"It did! It's gone!" shouted her father.
"All the wires, father? And the gong? Why, I noticed the gong myself as I came down-stairs."
"I didn't say the wires and the gong!" stormed Mr. Witherbee. "You don't have to steal them to steal a burglar-alarm. I mean, they copped the works—the buzz-stuff—the juice!"
"Stephen!" protested his wife, still fanning herself, "that kind of speech doesn't—"
"What's speech got to do with this, madam? This is no time for speech; this is a time for talk! Do you understand that? Talk! I say they've stolen the works!"
"Dad means the batteries, mother," explained Tom Witherbee, rising. "Let's go and see."
The breakfast party followed him into the house, Mr. Witherbee storming noisily at the rear.