Meek and Stiffy halted a half block away, breath whistling in their
throats. The Prowler's tail, protruding from the hole in the side of
the plant, twitched happily. Meek regarded the scene with doleful
thoughts.
"I wish," Stiffy declared, "we'd stayed out there and died. It would
have been easier than what's liable to happen to us now."
Feet thumped behind them and a hand grabbed Meek's shoulder, grabbed
it. It was Andrew Smith, a winded, apoplectic Andrew Smith.
"What are you going to do?" he shouted at Meek.
Meek swallowed hard, tried to make his voice even. "Just studying over
the situation, Mr. Smith. I'll figure out something in a minute."
"Sure he will," insisted Stiffy. "Leave him alone. Give him time. He
always does what he says he'll do. He said he'd round up Blacky for
you, and he did. He went out single-handed and captured the Prowler.
He ..."
"Yeah," yelled Smith, "and he said the Prowler would stand without
hitching, too. And did he stand? I ask you ..."
"He didn't say that," Stiffy interrupted, testily, "I said that."
"It don't make a bit of difference who said it," shrieked Smith. "I
got stock in that plant there. And the Prowler's ruining it. He's
jeopardizing the life of this whole city. And it's all your fault. You
brought him here. I'll sue you, the both of you, so help me...."
"Ah, shut up," snapped Stiffy. "Who can think with you blabbering
around?"