A cyclone entering the room is apt to alter the position of things. This one shifted a footstool, a small chair, a rug, and Spike. The chair struck by a massive boot, whirled against the wall. The footstool rolled away. The rug crumpled up and slid. Spike, with a yell, leaped to his feet, slipped again, fell, and finally compromised on an all-fours position, in which attitude he remained, blinking.
While these stirring acts were in progress there was the sound of a door opening upstairs, followed by a scuttering of feet and an appalling increase in the canine contribution to the current noises. The duet had now taken on quite a Wagnerian effect.
There raced into the room first a white bull-terrier, he of the soprano voice, and—a bad second—his fellow-artiste, the baritone, a massive bulldog, bearing a striking resemblance to the big man with the revolver.
And then, in theatrical parlance, the entire company “held the picture”. Up-stage, with his hand still on the door, stood the large householder; down-stage Jimmy. Centre, Spike and the bulldog, their noses, a couple of inches apart, inspected each other with mutual disfavour. On the extreme O.P. side the bull-terrier, who had fallen foul of a wickerwork table, was crouching with extended tongue and rolling eyes, waiting for the next move.
The householder looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked at the householder. Spike and the bulldog looked at each other. The bull-terrier distributed his gaze impartially around the company.
“A typical scene of quiet American home-life,” murmured Jimmy.
The man with the pistol glowered.
“Hands up, you devils!” he roared, pointing a mammoth revolver.
The two marauders humoured his whim.
“Let me explain,” said Jimmy pacifically, shuffling warily round in order to face the bull-terrier, who was now strolling in his direction with an ill-assumed carelessness.