Everybody scattered a second time.
Harold never remembered the order in which things happened amidst the confusion that followed. It seemed he and Mr. Untz ran blindly, side by side, down the studio street for awhile. It seemed all kinds of people were also running, in all kinds of directions.
Bells were ringing—sirens blew—a blue studio police car took a corner on two wheels and barely missed them. Harold had a glimpse of uniformed men with drawn pistols.
They ended up somehow at Mr. Untz’s office-cottage. They went inside and Mr. Untz locked the door and slammed his back to it. He leaned there, panting. He said, “Trouble, trouble, trouble. I should have stayed in Vienna. And in Vienna I should have stood in bed.”
The door of the shower and dressing-room opened and Jimsy LaRoche came out. He had a number of snails in his out-stretched hand and he coolly kept them there, making no attempt to conceal his obvious purpose in the shower. He looked directly at Mr. Untz with his dark disconcerting eleven-year-old eyes and said, “Well, Max, what goof-off did you pull this time?”
“You!” roared Mr. Untz, whirling and shooting a finger at the child star. A focusing point for all his troubles, at last. His jowls shook. “You, Jimsy LaRoche,” he said, “are going to get your first old fashioned spanking on the bottom! From me, personally!” He advanced toward the boy, who backed away hastily.
Jimsy began to look a little frightened.
“Now wait a minute, Max,” said Harold, stepping forward. “We’ve got enough big monsters to think about without worrying about this little monster too.”
Mr. Untz stared at Harold queerly. Suddenly he said, “Why didn’t I think of it before?”