Ike allowed himself to be led along. He knew what he was up to, and he went along as quietly as Mary’s little lamb. As intimated, Nimble Ike was what the boys call awfully smart, and he had nerve of the very first quality. He just acted as meek as a little girl until they reached the great staircase, and were descending the last flight of steps leading to the office, when suddenly a dog snapped at the calves of the night watchman’s legs. The man was entirely off his guard. He felt as safe as a ship floating on a smooth lake in midsummer, and the bark and snap came so suddenly he released his hold on Ike, leaped into the air, and as he came down struck on the carpeted edge of the step, fell over and rolled to the bottom. Ike was more nimble, however; the moment the man released him, he made a plunge down the stairs, went down the broad rails “belly gutters,” as the boys say, and away he went across the marble office floor, and out into the darkness and away. Meantime the watchman had rolled over and over, and slid out on the marble floor, and one of the bell boys ran to his assistance.
“Where in thunder,” demanded the watchman, as he rose to his feet, “did that darn dog come from?”
“There weren’t no dog, Boss.”
“There weren’t no dog?”
“No, sir.”
“How dare you contradict me; didn’t he spring at me from behind?”
“There weren’t no dog. I was looking at you when you came down the stairs.”
“What do you want to lie for?”
“I was looking straight at you.”
“And you didn’t hear that dog?”