Simultaneously the Treasurer jumped upon a small occasional table.
“Black beetles!” she screamed. “Help!”
Above the babel rose Miss Fairlow’s clear voice.
“And there’s Omshafu himself. I can see his dear little pink nose peeping out.”
Babel ceased for one second while the Society for the Encouragement of Higher Thought looked at Omshafu. Then it arose with redoubled violence.
*****
William departed with his exhibits. He had recaptured most of them. Omshafu had been taken from the ample silk sash of the Treasurer in a fold of which he had taken refuge. William had left his mother and Miss Fairlow pouring water on the hysterical Treasurer.
William was late as it was. Behind him trotted Jumble, the chewed-up remains of his gala attire hanging from his mouth.
“William.”
Miss Fairlow was just behind, carrying a cardboard box.