Taking advantage of the sergeant's momentary dismay, Marc shoved a bill into the hand of the screaming manageress, grabbed Toffee, who had now struggled into the dress, and, flanking the befuddled law, led her quickly to the stairs.
"Hurry!" he said. "And be quiet."
"You're under arrest!" the sergeant roared behind them. "Everybody's under arrest—probably!"
In record time, Marc and Toffee gained the level of the second floor and kept on running. As they ran, Toffee returned Marc's coat and he slipped it on.
The pain from the gas medicine had departed now, and Marc was feeling better. In fact, now that he stopped to think about it, he was feeling so much better he was actually beginning to enjoy himself. Striding forward, counters, customers and gaping clerks fading rapidly into the background, he even found time to admire Toffee's new finery.
"That's probably the briefest dress known to man," he remarked amiably.
"I hope it shall be well-known to man," Toffee returned happily. "One man in particular. At least I shall endeavor to make it count for the most."
"Or the least," Marc said.
Arms and legs flashing, they quitted the china department and, according to the signs, entered Sportswear on the left and Imported Liquors on the right. Thinking this a curious arrangement of merchandise, Marc turned to Toffee. He started to speak, then jolted to a halt with a thin wheeze of astonishment. Toffee stopped and turned back.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "What are you gaping at?"