“They are both up,” answered the Prophet, pointing with a lethargic finger towards the staircase, from which, at this moment, arose a perfect hubbub of voices.
“Come on!” cried the policeman.
“Why?” asked the Prophet.
“Why! you’re a nice un, you are! Why! And nab ‘em, of course!”
“You think it would be wise to—what was the word—nab them?” inquired the Prophet. “You really think so?”
“Well, what am I here for then?” said the policeman, with angry irony.
“Oh, if you prefer,” rejoined the Prophet, civilly. “Nab them by all means. I shall not prevent you.”
The policeman, who was an active and industrious fellow deserving of praise, waited for no further permission, but immediately darted up the stairs, and in less than a minute returned with Mrs. Merillia—attired in a black silk gown, a bonnet, and an Indian shawl presented to her on her marriage by a very great personage—in close custody.
“Here’s one of ‘em!” he shouted. “Here, you lay hold of her while I fetch the rest!”
And with these words he thrust the Prophet’s grandmother into one of his hands, the broken truncheon into the other, and turning smartly round, again bounded up the stairs.