“That appeals to my most tragic humor,” cried the man, “that no one—oh, no one—could get up there but a tumbler.”
The gallant with the wounded hand snapped his good fingers impatiently.
“We must go next door—and then on—”
Helplessly they went as two walking under a dark and storm-swept sky.
Wessel closed and bolted the door and stood a moment by it, frowning in pity.
A low-breathed “Ha!” made him look up. Soft Shoes had already raised the trap and was looking down into the room, his rather elfish face squeezed into a grimace, half of distaste, half of sardonic amusement.
“They take off their heads with their helmets,” he remarked in a whisper, “but as for you and me, Wessel, we are two cunning men.”
“Now you be cursed,” cried Wessel vehemently. “I knew you for a dog, but when I hear even the half of a tale like this, I know you for such a dirty cur that I am minded to club your skull.”
Soft Shoes stared at him, blinking.
“At all events,” he replied finally, “I find dignity impossible in this position.”