And then the congregation was increased by one, for a man strutted out of the darkness and stood framed in the open window.
“ ’Ere, wassal this?” demanded Orace truculently.
Chapter VIII.
The Saint is Dense
Bloem wheeled with a smothered exclamation, for the interruption came from behind him. Then the Boer slowly lowered his automatic—because Orace was carrying the enormous revolver which was his pride and joy, and that fearsome weapon was waving in a gentle semicircle so that it covered everyone in the room in turn. Orace leaned on the windowsill, well pleased with the timeliness of his entrance and the sensation it had caused.
“Snoldup,” declared Orace brightly. “Ni jus’ come in the nicker time. Looks like a dangerous carrickter, too. Orfcer,” said Orace, with a lordly sweep of his free hand, “you ’ave the bracelets. Do yer dooty!”
“My good fellow——”
Orace waggled the blunderbuss threateningly in Bloem’s direction.
“Lay orf ‘me good fellerin’ ’ me!” commanded Orace ferociously. “Caught in the yack, that’s wot you are, an’ jer carn’t wriggle out av it! Constible! Wot the thunderin’ ’ell are yer wytin’ for? Look slippy an’ clap the joolry on ’im! An’ jew jusurryup an’ leggo that popgun, or I’ll plugua!”
Bloem let the automatic fall, and the Saint picked it up, in case of accidents.
“I can explain,” persisted Bloem.