His efforts proved as barren as before, and finally abandoning the attempt, we settled ourselves down to do as well as we could with knives and fingers.
"Here's to our week-end," said Tommy, holding up a glass of Bass. "And death to the salmon."
"Death to the salmon," I repeated hopefully, raising my glass in turn.
We were just drinking the toast, when Mortimer suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair and glanced quickly round behind him.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"'Sh!" he whispered. "Go on talking loudly. Don't stop whatever you do."
We followed his instructions, watching him with amazement as he jumped up noiselessly from his chair, and crept like a cat across the room as far as the archway. Here he stopped, bending down and listening intently, with his hand to his ear.
When he turned, his face was alight with excitement. He came swiftly back, signalling to us to keep up the conversation.
"There's someone getting out of one of the bedroom windows," he whispered across the table. "Don't stop talking, but get to the door, and make a sudden rush for it. We're bound to catch him."
A smile of holy joy irradiated Tommy's countenance. Next to wrestling with a motor-car, a physical difference of opinion with a fellow-creature appeals to him more than anything else in the world. He leapt up, and instantly assumed command.