“Nothing but plain air,” McCarty commented. “’Tis not gassed you are, is it, Denny?”
“Not yet,” replied Dennis with a palpable reservation. “You’ve twenty-one left, though!”
“We’ll make short work of them!” McCarty jabbed a second balloon with his knife and the ensuing report was productive of a like harmless result.
Thereafter the air was for a space filled with a rapid succession of small detonations. When it was over and not a balloon was left intact Dennis’ apprehension gave place to disgust.
“’Tis in our second childhood we are!” he declared. “Whatever put it into your head that the toy balloon had anything to do with the girl’s death——!”
But McCarty was not listening. He had drawn from his pocket the shrivelled shred of rubber on its fragment of stick and was smoothing it out thoughtfully between his fingers. All at once he straightened.
“Denny, that first balloon we stuck the knife into was red, wasn’t it?”
“Sure it was!” Denny looked his surprise.
“And the second was blue and the third green?”
“I disremember,—but what of it?”