"Beg pardon, sir," says he, backin' off, real stiff and dignified; "but——"
"Ah, chuck it!" says I, reachin' out and gettin' hold of his collar, playful like. "You've been listenin' at the door. Now what do you think of the way them kids is carryin' on in there?"
"It's outrageous, sir!" says he, puffin' up his cheeks, "It's scandalous! They're young imps, so they are, sir."
"Want to stop all that nonsense?" says I.
He says he does.
"Then," says I, "you take them jars down cellar and hide 'em in the coal bin."
He holds up both hands at that. "It can't be done, sir," says he. "They've been right there for twenty years without bein' so much as moved. They were very superior folks, sir, very superior."
"Couldn't you put 'em in the attic, then?" says I.
He couldn't. He says it's in the lease that the jars wa'n't to be touched.
"Snivens," says I, shovin' a twenty at him, "forget the lease."