“Oh, crime will out. Maybe he saw you and read your guilt on your countenance.” Harry chuckled. He had already discovered that laughing at a person’s jokes was an easy way to ingratiate oneself. In the present case, however, the rule didn’t work.
“Don’t do that,” said Arthur, sharply, returning to his moody inspection of the Yard, “you sound like a woodchuck.”
“I’m going to send him a list of my duplicates,” continued Harry, dodging the rebuff. “Maybe he has something I want.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“Cotton.”
“Oh. Well, look out he doesn’t palm off forgeries on you. Cotton may not be as soft as he sounds. There’s Durfee.” Up went the window and Arthur thrust his head out into the rain and hailed the boy below. “Oh, Durfee! Go slow; I want to see you!”
“He can’t cheat me,” said Harry, nodding his head wisely. “I guess I know the value of stamps pretty well by this time, and if he thinks——”
“For the love of mud, shut up!” commanded Arthur, crossly, as he seized his cap. “You’d drive an angel mad with your silly chatter! Pitch that book down and get out of doors before I come back and tan your hide for you!”
“I can’t go out in this rain,” objected Harry.
“You’ve got a raincoat, haven’t you?”