“If you’ll—”
“Not on any account,” I declared firmly. It had just occurred to me why the Bonnie Lassie had centered her gaze upon my features. “Follow your indecent noses as far as you like. I stay.”
Still lost in meditation, I may have dozed on my bench, when heavy, measured footsteps aroused me. I looked up to see Terry the Cop, guardian of our peace, arbiter of differences, conservator of our morals. I peered at him with anxiety.
“Terry,” I inquired, “how is your nose?”
“Keen, Dominie,” said Terry. He sniffed the air. “Don’t you detect the smell of illegal alcohol?”
“I can’t say I do.”
“It’s very plain,” declared the officer wriggling his nasal organ which, I was vastly relieved to observe, retained its original hue. “Wouldn’t you say, Dominie, it comes from yonder cellar?”
“Barbran’s cellar?
“I am informed that a circle of dangerous char-ackters with green noses gather there and drink cider containing more than two-seventy-five per cent of apple juice. I’m about to pull the place.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Terry; don’t do that! You’ll scare—”