"Try not to faint, Mildred," he said. "It might muss your hair."
It was a strange thing to say, but I had no time then to analyze it, for I had seized the fat foot which partly protruded from under the sofa, clad in a low-cut congress gaiter and a white sock.
And then I nearly fainted, for instead of the dreadful, inert resistance of lifeless clay, the foot wriggled and tried to kick at me.
"Help!" came a thin but muffled voice. "Help! Help, in the name of Heaven!"
"Boomly!" I cried, scarcely believing my ears.
"Take that man away, Smith!" whimpered Boomly. "He's a devil! He'll murder me! He made my nose bleed all over everything!"
"Boomly! You're not dead!"
"Yes, I am!" he whined. "I'm dead enough to suit me. Keep that little lunatic off—that's all I ask. He can have his Carnegie medal for all I care, only tie him up somewhere—"
"Professor Boomly!" cried Mildred excitedly. "Have you any Bimba leaves concealed about your person?"
"Yes, I have," he said sulkily. There came a hitch of the fat foot, a heavy scuffling sound, heavy panting, and then, skittering out across the floor came a flat, sealed parcel.