"As I have always contended," puts in Tidman, "the commercial mind is
much over-rated. Its intelligence begins with the dollar sign and ends
with a percentage fraction. In England, now, we--"
"Well, Peters?" breaks in T. Waldo, glancin' annoyed towards the double
doors, where the butler is teeterin' back and forth on his toes.
"If you please, sir," says Peters, registerin' deep agitation, "might I
have a word with you in--er--in private, sir?"
"Nonsense, Peters," says Waldo. "Don't be mysterious about silly
housekeeping trifles. What is it? Come, speak up, man."
"As you like, sir," goes on Peters. "It--it's about the laundress,
sir. She's sitting on a man in the basement, sir."
"Wha-a-at?" gasps Waldo.
Tidman takes it out by droppin' a book.
"A dangerous character, we think, sir," says the butler--"most likely
one of a gang of burglars. Mrs. Flynn found him lurking in the
coal-bin on account of his having sneezed, sir. Then she grappled him,
sir."
"Oh, dear!" groans Tidman, his face goin' putty-colored.
"The deuce!" says Waldo. "And you say the laundress has him--er--"
"Quite secure, sir," says Peters. "Both hands in his hair and she
sitting on his chest, sir."
"But--but this can't go on indefinitely," says Waldo.
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