"Ah, keep the lid on, old Goulash," says I. "Sergeant, if he gets messy, roll one of those spools on him. I'll be back shortly."
With that I blows into the Plutoria and hunts up the tea room. The major's there, all right, and Mr. Ellins, also a couple of ladies. They're just bein' served with Oolong and caviar sandwiches.
"Ah!" says the major, as he spots me. "Our gallant young office lieutenant, eh? Well, sir, anything to report?"
"The spools are outside, sir," says I.
"Wh—a—at!" he gasps.
"Where'll you have 'em put, sir?" says I.
About then, though, in trails the taxi starter, the manager and a brace of house detectives.
"That's him!" says the starter, pointin' me out. "He's the one that's blockin' traffic."
I will say this for the major, though, he's a good sport. He comes right to the front and takes all the blame.
"I'm responsible," he tells the manager. "It's perfectly all right, too. Military necessity, sir. Well, perhaps you don't like it, but I'll have you understand, sir, I could block off your whole street if I wished. So clear out, all of you."