"I'd love to see one. What do they smuggle, William?"
He came and joined her at the door, walking with a slight swagger as became a man of literary fame.
"Oh, beer an' cigars an' things. Millions of them."
A furtive figure was passing the door, casting suspicious glances to left and right. He held his coat tightly round him, clasping something inside it.
"I expect that's one," said William casually.
They watched the figure out of sight.
Suddenly William's eyes shone.
"Let's stalk him an' catch him," he said excitedly. "Come on. Let's take some weapons." He seized his pop-gun from a corner. "You take—" he looked round the room—"You take the wastepaper basket to put over his head an'—an' pin down his arms an' somethin' to tie him up!—I know—the skin I—he—shot in Africa. You can tie its paws in front of him. Come on! Let's catch him smugglin'."
He stepped out boldly into the dusk with his pop-gun, followed by the blindly obedient Peggy carrying the wastepaper basket in one hand and the skin in the other.
Mr. Percival Jones was making quite a little ceremony of consigning his brandy and cigars to the waves. He had composed "a little effort" upon it which began,