About all that's visible is a pair of run-over shoes and
part of a coat sleeve that's been ripped off. She seems glad to see us.
"Thanks be!" says she, sighin' grateful. "It's faint and wake I am
strugglin' with this murderous little shrimp. Ah, squirm, will ye!
There's men to handle ye now, and the coppers'll soon be here. Will ye
take charge of him, Mr. Pettigrew?"
"No, no! Please, Mrs. Flynn!" protests Waldo. "You are doing
excellently. Don't let him up just yet."
"O-o-o-o!" moans the flattened gent. "My poor back!"
"If you could ease up a bit, so we might get a look at him," I
suggests. "We want to see if he's really a burglar."
"He's that, all right," says Mrs. Flynn. "Didn't I catch him
red-handed prowlin' about? But if ye want to see what his ugly mug
looks like, ye may. There! Sit ye up and face the gintlemen!"
She's a shifty party with her hands and feet, for with a couple of body
twists Mrs. Flynn is on her knees behind him with his arms pinned to
the small of his back.
"There, thief of the wor-ruld!" says she. "Tell 'em whatever you came
to steal."
"Go on," says I. "Mind the lady."
"I--I'm no thief; really, gentlemen," says he. "You can see that, I
trust."
"Sure!" says I. "Just mistook the basement for the drawin'-room,
didn't you? And you was about to leave cards on the fam'ly.
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