Titus sprang up and, running out into the hall, looked over the stair railing.
Poor old Higby, in trouble once more, was executing a kind of war dance round a young man that Titus speedily recognized as Mrs. Everest’s husband.
Titus clapped a hand over his mouth to prevent an explosion of laughter, and for a few instants wickedly did not interfere.
“Let me by, you old scamp,” Tom Everest was saying, half in amusement, half in irritability. “Don’t you know me? Why, I’ve been coming to this house ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.”
“C-c-can’t help it,” replied Higby, flourishing a broom that he held in his hand. “You aint a-a-a-goin’ up.”
“You old dog—get out of my way—isn’t my wife up there?”
“S-s-stand back,” vociferated Higby, “or I shall h-h-hit you with this broom.”
“Why, Higby, you’re crazy,” said Tom, good-naturedly. “I tell you my wife is up there. Would you separate man and wife? I’m going up, anyway. Now, once more, and for the last time, will you announce me?”
Higby shook his head. Tom gave a grunt of disapproval, and adroitly taking his broom from him put it over his shoulder and began to march upstairs with it.
Higby came scrambling, stuttering, and scolding after him, and Tom, mischievously allowing him to come quite near, would then take a short run.