The short, squat officer squawked again as Arthur grabbed him with his forepaws. His companion backed against the door, prepared to sell his life dearly. But then—and the two things happened at once—while Arthur proceeded to kick the living daylights out of the short, squat officer, Thomas resignedly opened the door behind the other and he fell backward suddenly and knocked himself cold against the doorstep.
Some fifteen minutes later the short, squat officer said gloomily: “It was a bum steer. Thanks for pulling that critter off me, and Casey’s much obliged for the drinks. But we’re hunting a bunch of counterfeiters that have been turning out damn good phony bills. The line led straight to you. You could have shot us. You didn’t. So we got to do the work all over.”
“I’m afraid,” admitted Pete, “the trail would lead right back. Perhaps, as government officials, you can do something about the fourth-dimensional demonstrator. That’s the guilty party. I’ll show you.”
He led the way to the laboratory. Arthur appeared, looking vengeful. The two officers looked apprehensive.
“Better give him a cigarette,” said Pete. “He eats them. Then he’ll be your friend for life.”
“Hell, no!” said the short, squat man. “You keep between him and me! Maybe Casey’ll want to get friendly.”
“No cigarettes,” said Casey apprehensively. “Would a cigar do?”
“Rather heavy, for so early in the morning,” considered Pete, “but you might try.”
Arthur soared. He landed within two feet of Casey. Casey thrust a cigar at him. Arthur sniffed at it and accepted it. He put one end in his mouth and bit off the tip.
“There!” said Pete cheerfully. “He likes it. Come on!”