“What is it, France? What is it?” said Mavis, who could not see what was happening.
“What is it—now what is it?” asked the Mermaid more crossly than she had yet spoken.
“Who is it? Oh, who is it?” gasped Francis, writhing in the grip of his invisible assailant. And from the dark shadow of the hedge came the simple and terrible reply:
“The police!”
[CHAPTER FOUR]
Gratitude
IT is hardly possible to imagine a situation less attractive than that of Mavis and Francis—even the position of the Mermaid curled up in a dry barrow and far from her native element was not exactly luxurious. Still, she was no worse off than she had been when the lariat first curled itself about her fishy extremity. But the children! They had braved the terrors of night in an adventure of singular courage and daring, they had carried out their desperate enterprise, the Mermaid was rescued, and success seemed near—no further off than the sea indeed, and that, in point of fact, was about a quarter of a mile away. To be within a quarter of a mile of achievement, and then to have the cup of victory dashed from your lips, the crown of victory torn from your brow by—the police!
It was indeed hard. And what was more, it was dangerous.
“We shall pass the night in the cells,” thought Mavis, in agony; “and whatever will Mother do when she finds we’re gone?” In her mind “the cells” were underground dungeons, dark and damp and vaulted, where toads and lizards crawled, and no daylight ever penetrated. That is how dungeons are described in books about the Inquisition.