"Suppose we adjourn to the bungalow," I suggested. "I'm sure we all want a drink after this little romp."
Tommy took the stranger's arm and tucked it affectionately under his in that unbreakable clasp invented by the Japanese. Then dishevelled and slightly out of breath, we retraced our steps to the house.
"Where will Mr. Sandow sit?" I inquired, as soon as we were all assembled in the front room.
"I would suggest somewhere not too near the door," said Mortimer. "I'm getting too old for these sudden bursts of speed."
"This will do," said Tommy, pulling up a rush-seated wooden chair with his foot. "Take a pew, my friend."
He dumped the stranger down into the seat, and as he did so there came from the latter's pocket the muffled but quite distinct chink of silver.
"There is music in the air," observed Mortimer thoughtfully.
"By gad," cried Tommy, "those must be our spoons. Trot 'em out, my son; the game's up, you know."
Somewhat reluctantly, the stranger inserted his hand into the gaping orifice which served him as a pocket, and drew out a large number of spoons wrapped up in a duster. He laid them on the table.
"Thank you," said Tommy; "and now if we may trouble you for the forks—ah, much obliged."