Even the elevators of the Wynant, and the procedures attendant thereto,
had a tone of delicate breeding about them. As the doors parted, ever
so smoothly, the mechanism emitted a sigh of unmistakable refinement,
like a great lady giving vent to a genteel yawn of boredom behind
an ivory fan. In the foreground was revealed a uniformed and finely
drilled operator who always stood at rigid attention on the occasion
of his passengers' debarkation. Thus it was, with all good taste, the
Wynant guest was given every opportunity to arrive before the general
public and the management with his best foot extended well to the fore.
It was one of those small touches that contributed so much to making
the Wynant the Wynant, and vice versa.
Now, however, the procedure of the elevators, like the best laid plans
of mice and mollusks, suddenly went amuck. Eyes turned and widened
sharply as the elevator doors flew open with an exclamatory rasp, and
not the passengers but the operator quitted the conveyance. Putting
one foot forward of the other with all the earnest haste of a scared
wombat, it was evident that the poor devil didn't know or even care
which of them was the best; he skittered across the foyer and around
the edge of the desk with the speed and directness of a well-aimed shot.
"It's him!" the wretched man jabbered, cowering beside the clerk. "He's
come back to get even with that statue!"
Meanwhile a scene of rather complex agitation had been revealed within
the narrow confines of the elevator. It seemed that Marc, still
increasing in the degree of his buoyancy, was no longer afforded any
particular measure of security from the weights in his pockets. Even
during the brief interval which had transported him from the roof to
the foyer, he had levitated to the height of about a foot and was still
inching upward.
Marc's companions were inclined to take a sour view of the whole
procedure. Indeed, the Blemishes felt called upon to express their
displeasure with firearms. Cecil Blemish aimed his gun at the small of
Marc's back and sighted tensely down the barrel.
"Come down," he threatened. "Stop doing that or I'll shoot. I will,
too."
"Stop that," Toffee said agitatedly. "Look where you're aiming. He's
risen another four inches. There's no need to be vulgar about it."
"Oh, excuse me," Cecil said, and aimed the gun higher.
"If you two don't put those guns away and stop waving them about,"
Toffee said, "I'm going to snatch them away from you and beat your
brains out with them. I'll admit it'll be something like hunting
butterflies with a sledge hammer, but I'm willing to have a go at it.
How about it?"
The twins paused in their activities and looked at each other.
"I'll bet she would at that," Cecil said.
"Those poor defenseless butterflies," Gerald nodded. "I shudder."
"And well you should shudder," Toffee put in.
Together the brothers turned to her with undisguised admiration.
"You're really mean," Cecil said. "Have you ever thought of being a
spy?"
"Have you ever thought of being a dead spy?" Toffee said waspishly.
"Now stop that nonsense and help me get him down. Find something to
weight him down with."
* * * * *
Marc, already beginning to crouch to keep his head away from the
ceiling of the car, looked down imploringly. "Just get me something to
eat," he pleaded. "I'll be all right if you'll only feed me."
"You see," Gerald Blemish said. "He's just being stubborn. This is all
just a childish trick to get us to feed him." He raised his gun again
in Marc's direction.
"Don't be silly," Toffee said. She explained to the Blemishes that food
reacted chemically to temporarily relieve Marc's condition of buoyancy.
"Just help me get him down, and we can get him something to eat in the
hotel dining room."
The brothers were thoughtful.
"I suppose we'll have to take her word for it," Cecil said. "Anyway,
he's not much good to us up there."
"I suppose so," Gerald agreed, "but personally I think he's just the
flighty type."
Cecil went to the door of the elevator and looked out. Then he stepped
outside and called back to Gerald to come and give him a hand.
Absentmindedly, Gerald started to hand his gun to Toffee, but at the
last moment he thought better of it and put it in his pocket.
"It's hard to tell who's captured whom sometimes," he said sadly, and
went outside.
In a moment the brothers were back, progressing slowly under the weight
of a tremendous sand-filled cigarette urn. They shuffled to the center
of the car and laboriously hoisted their cumbersome burden up to Marc.
"Here," Gerald panted. "Take it."
Marc regarded the thing without enthusiasm. "Good grief!" he said.
"That thing'll break my back. Can't you just get me something to eat?"
"Take it," Toffee said shortly. "You can come and get your own food.
And don't drop it. Personally, I don't intend to go galloping up to the
top of this hotel again after you. Next time you take off, I'll just
forward your mail to the moon and let it go at that."
With a sigh of hopeless resignation, Marc took hold of the urn, and the
Blemishes let go and stepped back. Instantly Marc and the urn crashed
to the floor with a tooth-rattling thud.
"Ugh!" Marc said.
"There, you see," Toffee beamed. "It works beautifully. Now, come on,
let's eat."
And so it was that a moment later the diners in the Wynant dining
room were suddenly shocked into silence by the arrival of the most
bizarre dinner party ever to venture forth in quest of food. It was
not enough that a combustible-looking redhead, garishly clad only in
a few precarious sequins, had arrived in their midst, this had to be
followed by a tall, anguished gentleman bent double under the weight of
an enormous cigarette urn. Why either the girl or her grimacing escort
had chosen to arrive at dinner in their respective conditions was
beyond comprehension. With this mystery to brood over, hardly anyone
even noticed the duplicate, derby-hatted, bush-bearded horrors in the
background. With great unconcern the party arrived at the head of the
short stairway leading to the dining room and paused grandly in full
view of the entire room. No one was more stunned at the sight of this
questionable quartet than the _maitre d'hotel_. If the circus had
come to town this elegant and formidable gentleman had not heard of it.
He hastened forward to correct what was obviously a gross mistake.
"I'm terribly sorry ..." he began in private tones.
* * * * *
Toffee recognized the attitude instantly. "If you think you're going
to put us out of here," she said, "you're going to be much more than
sorry." She nodded toward Marc. "This gentleman needs food. He's weak
as a kitten."
Marc looked up at the maitre de and bared his teeth in what he hoped
was a reassuring smile.
The maitre de glanced away with a pained expression. Then looked
quickly back.
"Isn't that one of our urns?" he asked sternly.
"We only borrowed it for a moment," Toffee explained. "You can have it
back when we're through with it."
"I suggest that the gentleman put it back where he found it right now,"
the maitre de said coolly.
"I can't put it back," Marc gritted breathlessly. "For the love of Mike
stop bickering and give me something to eat. I'm feeling weaker by the
second."
"If you'd put that urn back," the maitre de said with growing
hostility, "you wouldn't feel so weak." He turned to Toffee. "Does the
gentleman fancy himself as an ash tray? Is that it?"
"Of course not," Toffee snapped. "Give him a table."
"If I give him a table to carry will he put down the urn?" the maitre
de asked confusedly.
"Not to carry," Toffee said. "Give him a table to sit at. And food to
eat. Stop talking like an idiot."
The maitre de became petulant. "I won't give him a table until he gives
back that urn." He turned to Marc. "Give it back."
"I won't," Marc said. "I can't."
The maitre de stepped back a pace, then glanced wretchedly at the
silent diners behind him. All eyes were trained incredulously on him
and the unwanted foursome. He cleared his throat self-consciously.
"Please," he said, lowering his voice imploringly. "Please give back
the urn and go away. Just set it down and turn around and walk out.
You'll ruin me if you don't. I have a reputation to maintain. I've been
known to send royalty back to their rooms for neck-ties before I'd give
them service. A vice president fairly groveled before me once. These
people are expecting something from me, and I can't let them down.
Please, please go away!"
The party of four remained unmoved, either emotionally or physically.
They stayed where they were, staring at the man with stoic calm and
determination. The unhappy man turned desperately to Marc.
"For heaven's sake," he said, "have you developed some sort of fetish
for that urn? Do you imagine yourself to be in love with it? Is that
why you're hugging it in that awful way?"
"I'm not hugging it," Marc wheezed. "I'm carrying it."
"Where?" the maitre de asked bewilderedly.
"Anywhere," Marc said. "Just so long as I get something to eat. Please
give me a table and some food."
The maitre de's jaw squared with sudden determination. "No," he said.
"Flatly, no! I owe it to the Wynant dining room and these people here
to stick to my guns. I'll give you till ten to take that urn and leave
this room."
"I'd love to," Marc said weakly. "But I can't. Don't you understand?"
"Then just give the urn to me," the reluctant host said. "I'll see that
it gets back where it belongs."
"No," Marc said. "Flatly, no."
The maitre de's face turned vermilion with a flush of rage. "Then
suppose I just take it!" he said hotly. And with that he stepped boldly
forward, wrapped his arms resolutely around the urn and began to pull.
"Give it to me now," he grunted. "No use being stubborn, you know, it's
not yours."
"Oh, good grief!" Toffee cried with exasperation. "Just look at them.
Like a couple of crazy school kids with a dead mouse!" She turned to
the Blemishes. "Do something!"
* * * * *
With dittoed expressions of perplexity, the brothers regarded Toffee,
each other, and the problem of the besieged urn. Clearly it was time
for them to take steps, but they didn't know in which direction.
Simultaneously they moved forward to opposite sides of the urn, secured
a hold on it, and began to pull against each other. The spellbound
clientele of the Wynant looked on in confused wordlessness; no one
could guess why the cigarette urn had become so furiously important to
these struggling men all of a sudden; obviously it contained nothing
more wonderful than a lot of sand and a few stubs. One gentleman,
staring in entranced rapture, carefully lifted a sizeable portion
of steak on his fork, lifted it upward, and with preoccupied care,
deposited it, complete with mushroom sauce, in the depths of his
breast pocket.
Meanwhile the insane contest at the head of the stairs had arrived at
a state of complete impasse. Four different energies pulled in four
different directions, one balanced just enough against the other to
hold the urn perfectly motionless. Other than a rapidly deepening
blueness in Marc's face, there was no evidence that the men had not
simply joined together to provide a grotesquely decorative stand for
the urn. That this constituted a condition of utter absurdity, Toffee
was the first to realize. She placed herself impatiently at Gerald
Blemish's side and raised her hands to her hips.
"Just what do you think you're doing, you nincompoop?" she hissed. "Let
go."
Gerald looked up at her unhappily, considered, then let go. The three
remaining contestants staggered drunkenly aside, still clinging
doggedly to the urn.
"Show him your gun," Toffee directed.
Gerald thought about it, then bestirred himself. He went over to the
maitre de and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The maitre de looked
around.
"Look," Gerald said, taking his gun from his pocket and shoving it
under the poor man's nose. "See?"
The maitre de knew when he was licked. Instantly, he let go of the urn
and backed away. A look of great disillusionment came into his eyes.
With a soul-searing sob he turned and sat down heavily on the steps.
"You've ruined me," he blubbered. "You've deliberately come in here
and ruined my reputation. And I know who's behind it all; Felix of the
Gaylord!"
"Oh, dear!" Toffee said. "Please don't do that. Don't cry. I just
can't stand to see a man cry."
Cecil Blemish relinquished his hold on the urn and joined his brother
at the ruined man's side. In the background, Marc sagged limply under
the sudden weight.
"What's the matter with him?" Gerald asked.
"We've ruined him," Cecil explained briefly.
The maitre de shuddered with a new convulsion of self pity.
"Now, look here," Toffee said kindly. "There's no reason to go on like
this. I'll tell you what. Why can't we all cooperate in this thing? We
want food and you want to throw us out. Why don't we just compromise?
We'll take a table and eat and then we'll let you throw us out. You
can make a terrible scene, and we won't say a word." She turned to the
Blemishes. "That's fair, isn't it?"
"Oh, very," Cecil said enthusiastically. "We're wonderful at being
thrown out. We act cowardly as anything, we snivel."
"Oh, we snivel beautifully!" Gerald confirmed.
"Fine," Toffee said. "Why don't you do a little sniveling right now?
Just show the gentleman what he can expect. It's bound to cheer him up."
* * * * *
Together the Blemishes descended to their knees beside the sobbing
maitre de. Then, contorting their faces into expressions of despicable
self-abasement, they began to make small damp sounds of cowardly
beseechment. Tears began to course down their faces and into their
beards. Slowly, the maitre de raised his head and looked around. Then
with a cry of purest horror he leaped to his feet and bolted from the
room as though pursued by a thousand devils.
"I quit!" he screamed as he disappeared in the direction of the
kitchen. "I go back to the automat!"
"Poor man," Toffee murmured. "Definitely the ulcerous type." She turned
to the sniveling Blemishes. "Stop that awful noise and get up."
Marc struggled forward under the weight of the urn. "I can't hold out
much longer," he said.
Supremely unaffected by the horrified silence which had fallen over the
room, Toffee turned, surveyed the table accommodations, and sighted a
place in the center of the room.
"Follow me, men," she said.
As the strange party made its way to the middle of the room in sedate
silence, heads turned everywhere to follow its progress. Marc just made
it to the edge of the table. Toffee and the Blemishes seated themselves
as though their arrival had been accomplished in a completely orderly
manner. The Blemishes, in a formal mood, didn't bother removing their
hats.
"What about me?" Marc gasped. "Am I supposed to hold this thing in my
lap?"
Toffee studied his predicament through thoughtful, half-closed lids.
"No," she murmured, "you couldn't do that." She glanced around, at
the Wyman's markedly heavy silverware. She promptly picked up her own
place setting and dropped it in Marc's pockets. The Blemishes quickly
followed suit.
A moment later Marc's pockets fairly bulged with purloined silver. The
other diners looked on with awed fascination.
"Have you ever seen anything so flagrant?" a woman at an adjoining
table whispered. "I've heard of people stealing a knife or fork for a
souvenir, but ... well ... cleaning out the whole table!"
"Even the salt and peppers," her companion observed, half with
admiration. "Before they get through there'll be nothing left of this
hotel but the hollow shell."
Toffee regarded Marc with satisfaction. "That should hold you," she
said. "Unburden yourself."
Willing to risk anything by now, Marc put down the urn. He remained
stationary. With an echoing sigh of relief and a loud clattering of
silver, he seated himself at the table.
"Thank God!" he groaned.
The other diners, feeling that they were now in for a period of
respite, turned back to their cooling meals and a general buzz of
low-key conversation. It was at this moment that a waiter, just on duty
and starkly unappraised of recent developments, made his entrance into
the dining room, picked up a pitcher of water, and went to the aid of
the newcomers. He moved forward with the light step of the happy and
the innocent. Toffee saw him coming.
"May we have more silver?" she asked.
The waiter stopped short, put the pitcher of water down heavily on the
table. The dining room quieted for a second time.
"What happened to the silver that was here?" he asked. "A Wynant table
is never left without silver."
"Oh, that," Toffee said. "We used all that up."
"For what?" the waiter wanted to know. "What did you do with it?"
Toffee pointed blandly to Marc. "He has it in his pockets," she said.
Marc shifted in his chair with musical unease and refused to meet the
narrowed gaze of the waiter. There was a long moment of silence before
the waiter turned back to Toffee.
"You mean he just picked it up and put it in his pockets?"
"Oh, no," Toffee said. "Of course not. We picked it up and put it in
his pockets for him." She nodded to her dark-browed accomplices.
* * * * *
For a moment the waiter stood undecided. One could almost see the
desperate churnings of his mind. Finally he bent low toward Toffee in
a manner of great confidence. "Since you're so open about the whole
thing," he murmured, "I trust you and your friends are playing some
sort of game to amuse yourselves. I assume that you intend to take the
silver back out of the gentleman's pockets and return it to the table.
Am I right?"
"Certainly not," Toffee said. "We wouldn't think of it."
"I'd be very pleased if you would," the waiter said a bit more firmly.
"Oh, you wouldn't be pleased at all," Toffee said. "You'd despise it.
Now just run along and get some more silver."
"So you can stuff this fellow's pockets with it?" the waiter said. "If
you put any more in them they'll rip off."
"We want to eat with it," Toffee said.
"How novel," the waiter said. He turned to the Blemishes and blanched
slightly. "Would you ... uh ... gentlemen please remove your hats?"
"Now look here," Toffee said. "There's no use getting petty about this
thing." She nodded toward the vacant chair on the other side of the
table. "Sit down, and I'll explain everything."
The waiter gazed on her with heavy disdain. "I can't sit down," he said.
Marc, on his side of the table, had looked away for a moment, his
attention caught by the frankly admiring glance of a dark, heavy-lidded
lady at the next table. There was about her an unmistakably continental
air, and Marc couldn't help noticing that her neckline had plunged and
crashed somewhere in the neighborhood of the _Arc de Triumph_. He
flushed and turned away.
"Oh, please," he said anxiously, to no one in particular. "Please give
me something to eat."
"Can't sit down?" Toffee said to the waiter. "For heaven's sake, why
not? Has something happened to your...?"
"Of course not!" the waiter said quickly. "It isn't allowed. Waiters
never sit with the guests at the Wynant."
"Why not?" Toffee asked. "Is there something the matter with the
waiters here?"
The waiter opened his mouth to answer, then was silent with thought. "I
don't know," he said finally. "I guess there's nothing wrong with us.
At least I think I'm all right. I don't see why I shouldn't sit down.
If I'm invited, that is."
"Then have a seat," Toffee said.
"Thank you," the waiter said with a slight bow. "I don't mind if I do."
With great deliberation he turned, regarding the other diners with a
look of scornful defiance, then crossed around the table and sat down.
"Now, about that extra silver you wanted...."
A gasp echoed through the room. At the far side a bejeweled matron
rose from her place with a snort of outrage and stiffly departed the
room. In the meanwhile Marc had turned imploring eyes to the only
quarter from which he had so far received any attention at all. The
heavy-lidded lady smiled slowly.
"Would you give me something to eat?" Marc asked weakly. "You have so
much there and.... If I don't get something soon I'll drift off into
space."
"It is such a feeling as I have often suffered myself," the woman said
in a heavy French accent. "But never for the want of food. I could not
forgive myself to turn away a man with the hunger."
"I've got the hunger something fierce," Marc said.
"Of course, monsieur will pay the bill?"
"Sure," Marc agreed eagerly. "Anything."
* * * * *
The lady reached out a tapering hand to the table and picked up a piece
of paper covered darkly with figures. She handed it to Marc.
Marc glanced at the total and blanched.
"Champagne is so expensive in this country," the lady said regretfully.
"And to me it is like water."
"Obviously," Marc murmured. "You must wash your clothes in the stuff."
He held out his hand. "But never mind. Just give me the food."
"You have only to open the mouth," the lady smiled. "I will feed you
with my own hands." Her eyes held his own with a suggestive glint. "It
will be sweeter that way."
"Just give me the plate," Marc said.
The woman paid no attention. "You will drink the wine of my country
from the cup of my hand, like a great, thirsting beast." She laughed
throatily. "It is so that we make love with the meal."
"Doesn't it get awfully messy?" Marc asked ruefully. "Or do you wear
gloves?"
"Love is never tidy," the woman breathed, leaning close to him. "Not
when it is worthwhile. Love is always a beautiful, beautiful mess."
Marc, more embarrassed than enthralled at this invitation to amour
among the foodstuffs, was not aware that Toffee had paused in her
conversation with the waiter and fastened her eyes with brooding
hostility to the back of his neck.
"And now," the French temptress was saying, "the monsieur will part the
beautiful lips so Lisa can give him the food of love."
"Oh, yeah?" Toffee put in hotly from across the table. "If the
monsieur parts the beautiful lips Toffee will part his teeth for him!"
Marc started guiltily. "Now, Toffee...!"
"Stand back from that French pastry, you philandering gourmet!" Toffee
said, getting up from her chair. "When I get through with her there's
going to be a lot more broken than just her speech!"
"She's only feeding me!" Marc said.
"Yeah," Toffee sneered. "The food of love. I heard her." She swung
toward the woman. "I'm the dietitian around here, honey, and don't you
forget it."
"I only show the monsieur how she is done in the old country."
"Well," Toffee said, "get a load of how she's done in the new one.
Prepare yourself to get fractured, you Parisian petunia!"
And with that the turbulent redhead snatched the plate of squab that
rested in the tapering hand of the enchantress and carefully emptied
its contents into the lady's elaborate hair-do.
"_Mon dieu!_" the woman screamed as she shot out of her chair. She
swung about and eyed Toffee malevolently through a trickle of gravy.
"So! The mademoiselle would be the wildcat, eh?" She glanced quickly
about for ammunition and found it on a neighboring table. Scooping a
plate of soup from beneath the owner's very spoon, she turned furiously
and prepared to hurl it into Toffee's face. "I have never been so
insult in all my life!"
"Put that soup down, Fifi," Toffee warned, "or you're going to get
insult in places you didn't know you had."
The soggy siren did as she was told, but only by accident. As she
started toward Toffee, the plate of soup slithered out of her hand,
looped gracefully through the air and landed upside down in the lap of
a lavender-laced matron. Heaving herself from her chair, the matron
trumpeted her displeasure to the assemblage at large, armed herself
with a pitcher of water, and entered the fray. Stepping with great
dignity to the side of the besieged European, she heaved the contents
of the pitcher in the general vicinity of her mid-section. Then, with
great pleasure, she threw back her head and laughed. Just in time to
receive a plateful of oysters squarely in the face.
* * * * *
In the next moment the entire room had entered into the spirit of the
occasion. Naturally repressed, the guests of the Wynant were quick
to seize upon this opportunity to give expression to their pent up
feelings. Pandemonium ruled the room from end to end. Trays and diners
slid across the floor together with an air of abandoned democracy. Mrs.
Jones, having long resented the upward tilt of Mrs. Smythe's nose, did
her level best to lower it with a sauce bottle. The action, for the
main part, however, gravitated frenziedly toward the center of the room
where it had started. Toffee, having applied the squab to her victim,
was now gustily engaged in massaging it into the scalp, all the way to
the bone if possible.
Marc, for his part, was busily engaged in reaping the spoils of the
battle. He picked up an abandoned roll here, an unwanted steak there,
and even occasionally caught a delicacy as it flew through the air. He
stuffed himself as ravenously as a starved road-worker at a free lunch.
The Blemishes remained seated at the table, thoroughly confused and
disillusioned at the activities of the upper classes. The waiter merely
leaned back in his chair with an enigmatic smile and enjoyed to the
fullest the spectacle of these people doing to each other what he had
been secretly tempted to do to them nightly for several years.
Marc, still concerned with the matter of dining, reached out for an
abandoned pudding and discovered new and still more alarming element in
the fracas. Just as his hand was closing in on the dessert, the dish
suddenly leaped into the air, poised itself carefully, then sailed
across the room to catch a portly gentleman neatly at the side of the
ear. In a seizure of surprise, as the gooey mess dribbled into his
collar, the man whirled about and dealt his female companion a stinging
blow across the bridge of her nose.
"Oh!" he gasped in instant regret. "I'm so terribly sorry!"
For a moment the woman only stared at him without expression. Then,
with slow calm she reached out to the table, picked up a bottle of
wine, carefully removed the cloth from around it, and belted her abject
attacker a solid blow across the crown of the head.
"Perfectly all right, lover," she murmured as she stepped over his
prone figure and started from the room. "Don't bother getting up."
Marc turned back to the table and frowned sternly.
"George," he said tentatively. "George, I know you're there, so there's
no use hiding. Show yourself."
"Of course," George's voice said out of space, with malicious levity.
"In a moment. Wonderful fight, isn't it?"
"George!" Marc said.
But there was only silence from the ghost. Marc gazed speculatively
around, peering anxiously into the ranks of the warring diners for some
sign; there was no telling what the sporadic spook might undertake in
a situation of this sort. It was only a moment before the worst of his
fears were realized.
There was only a slight disturbance around the cigarette urn at first,
a faint billowing of the table cloth. Then, as though someone had
secured a grip on the thing ... as George indeed had ... it suddenly
lifted into the air. There was a period of shifting and balancing, then
it lifted steadily upward until it was above the heads of the embroiled
diners.
"No!" Marc yelled at the top of his lungs. "George! Put it back!"
Instantly all was silence in the dining room as the warring guests
froze in various attitudes of combat and cast frightened eyes upward at
the floating urn. The enchantress from France, her hand clutching at
Toffee's hair, was somewhat more affected than the others.
"I haf loose my reason!" she wailed. "I am departed from my wits in
this land of barbarians!" Then, becoming considerably more heavy-lidded
than before, she wilted quietly to the floor.
Meanwhile the urn had continued upward, paused, sighted its course,
and started viciously in Marc's direction. George's plan was hideously
plain; he meant to dispatch his earthly part to the hereafter by means
of bombardment.
"Run, Marc!" Toffee screamed. "Run!"
Marc, however, now laden with food, silver and lead weights, was all
but incapable of flight. He started forward, but only ploddingly.
Loaded to the teeth with ballast, his progress was not only extremely
noisome, but greatly retarded.
"I can't run!" he panted.
* * * * *
In the next moment the urn had arrived at a position almost directly
above him. It shuttled nervously back and forth, evidently adjusting
for a direct hit. Toffee dashed toward the table and the petrified
Blemishes. She bent quickly over Cecil and snatched the revolver from
his hand.
"Bombs away!" George's voice sang out jubilantly from the region of the
urn. "Fire one!"
"Oh, Lord!" Marc moaned fervently. He struggled desperately to reach
one of the tables so that he might take shelter under it.
And then, just as the urn plunged downward, three shots thundered
deafeningly through the room. Marc was suddenly caught in a rain of
sand and shattered pottery.
At the table, the Blemishes jumped to their feet and threw their hands
above their heads.
"We surrender!" they yelped in unison.
Then Cecil turned around, saw Toffee, the gun in her hand. He reached
out and took it from her.
"You're not supposed to have that," he said woundedly. "What kind of
prisoner are you, anyway?"
"Sorry," Toffee said. "It was an emergency."
Then she ran to Marc, followed by the Blemishes, and began to scrape
some of the debris from his head and shoulders. No sooner had she
arrived, however, than another crisis loomed on the horizon. The door
of the dining room flew open and the manager of the Wynant, accompanied
by two of the city's finest, ran inside.
"Arrest them all!" the manager screamed shrilly. "Arrest everybody!"
"Get down!" Toffee said quickly and dragged Marc with her to cover
beneath the nearest table. The Blemishes followed swiftly after.
In the deathly stillness that ensued, the manager and the two policeman
advanced menacingly into the room. Then suddenly they stopped as a
jangling sound broke the quiet. It was as though a handful of silver
had been dropped to the floor somewhere across the room. It was
obvious, however, that there was no one in that direction.
"Okay, Bill," one of the policemen said. "Let's round 'em up!"
In the activity that followed no one noticed the kitchen doors swing
open, quietly and slowly, to permit the curious passage of four
crawling figures.
"I don't know," Toffee said, crawling over the feet of an astonished
chef. "I don't know where everyone gets the idea this hotel is so
elegant. I've been here only twice and it's been raided both times."