“Say, Hunky, did you see this old mantle?” I called, moving toward the door.
I went through it—and found myself looking at two most unexpected things—Hunky, with his hands raised above his head, and a nice, blue-black automatic held in the unwavering hand of an old woman who was sitting in a chair.
“You, too!” she snapped at me, “Up with ’em! Now what the hell are you two crooks breaking into an old woman’s home for?”
“Good heavens, ma’am,” stammered Hunky. “We—that is—I thought it was a deserted farm house. No intention of annoying anybody. We are simply touring—just a lark to break in here.”
“‘Lark’, hey?” said the old woman, a most unpleasant glare in her eyes. “D’you call it a lark to bust into my home and maybe rob me? How do I know you mightn’t have murdered me?”
“I assure you, madame,” I interrupted, “my friend here had no intention of doing the slightest harm. It was, as he says, a lark—just to show off to me. I followed him because I was interested in the old woodwork—and not your modern hardware,” I added.
She lowered the gun slowly.
“Hum. Well, you don’t look like desperate characters now I take a good look at you. I was frightened, I guess.”
“Sorry,” said Hunky. “No intention of frightening anybody, and it was silly of me to break in. I apologize.”