At Doctor Parkinson’s, however, we had better luck, discovering the side entrance to the house open and finding our way inside with the aid of the flashlight. There was only one wood box on the lower floor, and this we proceeded to search, laying the wood out carefully onto a newspaper. But we found no envelopes, and in the midst of our discouragement came a really dreadful episode.
Doctor Parkinson himself appeared at the door in his night clothes, and not recognizing us because of our attire and goggles, pointed a revolver at us.
“Hands up!” he cried in a furious tone. “Hands up, you dirty devils! And be quick about it!”
“‘Prevention is better than cure, ting-a-ling,’” said Tish.
“Ting-a-ling your own self! Of all the shameless proceedings I’ve ever——”
“Shame on you!” Tish reproved him. “If ting-a-ling means nothing to you, we will leave you.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” he said, most unpleasantly. “Put up your hands as I tell you or——”
I do not now and I never did believe the story he has since told over the town—that Tish threw the fire log she was holding at his legs. I prefer to credit her own version—that as she was trying to raise her hands the wood fell, with most unfortunate results. As a matter of fact, the real risk was run by myself, for when on the impact he dropped the revolver, it exploded and took off the heel of my right shoe.
Nor is it true, as he claims, that having been forced out of his house, we attempted to get back in and attack him again. This error is due to the fact that, once outside, Tish remembered the revolver on the floor, and thinking it might be useful later, went back to get it. But the door was locked.
However, all is well that ends well. We had but driven a block or two when we perceived a number of the cars down the street at the engine house, and proceeded to find our next clew in the box of the local fire engine.