“Just underneath, as the clock strikes nine. It must be about the time.”
At that moment the city clock struck nine.
Mr. Benton left Paul, and crossing the street, took up his position beneath the window of his charmer, beginning to sing, in a thin, piping voice, as preconcerted between them—
“Ever of thee,
I'm fo-o-ondly dreaming.”
The song was destined never to be finished.
From his post in a doorway opposite, Paul saw the window softly open. He could distinguish a tall female figure, doubtless Miss Hawkins herself. She held in her hand a pitcher of water, which she emptied with well-directed aim full upon the small person of her luckless admirer.
The falling column struck upon his beaver, thence spreading on all sides. His carefully starched collar became instantly as limp as a rag, while his coat suffered severely from the shower.
His tuneful accents died away in dismay.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, jumping at least a yard, and involuntarily shaking himself like a dog, “who did that?”
There was no answer save a low, musical laugh from the window above, which was involuntarily echoed by Paul.