"That miscreant in the shed there?" asks the Lieutenant.
"Him?" says Maggie. "Lord love ye, no. That's only Schwartzenberger, from the slaughter-house. And please, Mister, it'll be gone the mornin'—ivry bit gone."
"Oh, will it!" says Cecil sarcastic. "But you'll be in prison first."
"Wurra! Wurra!" moans the fat female. "Save us, Maggie! Let him have it for the takin's."
"I will not, then," says Maggie. "Not if he's the president of the Board of Health himself."
"Enough of this," says the Lieutenant. "Hands up, you bomb plotters!"
But about then I'd begun to acquire the hunch that we might be makin' a slight mistake, and that it was time for me to crash in. Which I does.
"Excuse me," says I; "but maybe it would help, Maggie, if you'd say right out what it is you've got in the shed there."
"What is ut?" says she, tossin' her head defiant. "As though you didn't know! Well, it's a pig, then."
"A pig!" sneers the Lieutenant. "Very likely, that is!"