Scoop was feeling more like himself now that he had gotten on the outside of a dipperful of water. And instead of going cautiously through the sitting room he strutted along in his most daring way, acting as though he owned the whole house and didn’t care a rap for anybody or anything.
“Um.…” he mumbled, stopping at the piano.
“Come on,” I breathed, tugging anxiously at his arm.
“Just a minute.” He got down on his knees [[178]]and squinted at the marked piano leg, thumping it with his knuckles in the way the killer had done. “I wish I had a light. Skip into the kitchen, Jerry, and get some matches.”
“Not on your life. Come on.”
He had hold of the leg with his hands.
“I can turn it!”
A foot scraped on the floor directly over our heads.
“It’ll be your last ‘turn,’ ” I shivered, conscious of a pair of burning eyes in the stovepipe hole, “if you don’t hurry and get out of here.”
“I’ve got it. Boy! It weighs a ton.”