“Mrs. Grimes says the house is likely to fall down on our heads at any minute,” said Oliver. “How is your lumbago, Malone?”
“Better. Mrs. Grimes almost succeeded in putting a mustard plaster on me yesterday. She had me gargling my throat last week. I’m never going to complain again as long as I’m around where she is.”
“By the way, she notified me this noon that our hired girl, Lizzie Meggs, has decided to give up her place unless your men fill up some of the graves they’ve dug in my cellar. She says that every time she goes down for a pan of potatoes or a jar of pickles she has to jump over a grave or two, and it’s getting on her nerves.”
“I’ll have ’em put some planks over those holes,” said the detective. “That reminds me. Now that they’ve stopped work under the porch, you might call off your watch-dog. Give the old boy a little much needed rest. He’s been sitting back there on the kitchen steps ever since one o’clock—and he’s here every morning before we begin work.”
Oliver walked to the corner. Joseph Sikes was sitting on the back steps, his coat collar turned up about his throat, his aged back bent almost double, his chin resting on the mittened hands that gripped the head of his cane, his wrinkled face screwed up into a dogged scowl.
“Better step into the kitchen, Uncle Joe, and ask Lizzie for a cup of hot coffee. Work’s over for to-day.”
“The hell it is,” growled Mr. Sikes, without changing his position.
“Let him alone,” said Malone, good-naturedly. “He’s hatching out some new trouble for me. Reminds me of a crabbed old hen setting on a basket of eggs. As for the other one—the chubby undertaker—he’s down there in the swamp from morning till night, supervising the whole blamed job.”
“They are the best friends I’ve got in the world, Malone,” said Oliver earnestly.
“Well, we’ll clear out so’s you can have your committee meeting in peace,” said the detective.