There at the foot of the stair-well was Pendleton again, with a long, sour face.
I suppressed a desire to laugh.
“Well?”
“That damned, diseased pest!”
“What! Not the Parson once more!”
Cosgrove cannoned an incredulous “No!”
With the suddenness of a conjurer our host thrust before our noses a second cardboard placard scrawled across with uncouth printing mingled of capitals and small letters, now composing a message of more sinister purport:
LooK ouT FOR PARSON LOLLY He MEAns BUSINeSS
“Ah, yes,” I murmured with perhaps a little too much surface effort at nonchalance. “Parson Lolly means business now. He was only trifling last night.”
“He was interrupted last night—be sure of that,” intoned Cosgrove.