With a whoop, a buzz, and a crash, the organ sprang to life under the hand of Giuseppe, and the procession passed through the grained-to-imitate-walnut front door. A moment later we saw the monkey ramping on the roof.
“He'll be all over the township in a minute if we don't head him,” said Penfentenyou, leaping to his feet, and crashing into the garden. We headed him with pebbles till he retired through a window to the tuneful reminder that he had left a lot of little things behind him. As we passed the front door it swung open, and showed Jimmy the artist sitting at the bottom of a newly-cleaned staircase. He waggled his hands at us, and when we entered we saw that the man was stricken speechless. His eyes grew red—red like a ferret's—and what little breath he had whistled shrilly. At first we thought it was a fit, and then we saw that it was mirth—the inopportune mirth of the Artistic Temperament.
The house palpitated to an infamous melody punctuated by the stump of the barrel-organ's one leg, as Giuseppe, above, moved from room to room after his rebel slave. Now and again a floor shook a little under the combined rushes of Lord Lundie and Sir Christopher Tomling, who gave many and contradictory orders. But when they could they cursed Jimmy with splendid thoroughness.
“Have you anything to do with the house?” panted Jimmy at last. “Because we're using it just now.” He gulped. “And I'm—ah—keeping cavè.”
“All right,” said Penfentenyou, and shut the hall door.
“Jimmy, you unspeakable blackguard, Jimmy, you cur! You coward!” (Lord Lundie's voice overbore the flood of melody.) “Come up here! Giussieppe's saying something we don't understand.”
Jimmy listened and interpreted between hiccups.
“He says you'd better play the organ, Bubbles, and let him do the stalking. The monkey knows him.”
“By Jove, he's quite right,” said Sir Christopher from the landing. “Take it, Bubbles, at once.”