out immediately, supposing himself to have patched up a ruinous morning.
Old Hornby had not been as fortunate as had Jack. His conviction that the box was extra-terrestrial was scoffed at by several pawnbrokers who, seeming vaguely interested in the prize, attempted to coerce Hornby to hand it over to them for inspection. Sly Hornby realized that these usurious merchants were in league to swindle him, and he grew ever more protective of the thing as he, too, worked his way south. His natural curiosity drew him toward a clamoring mob which pursued some unseen thing.
It seemed to Hornby as if he “sniffed aliens” in the air and, as far as it goes, he was correct. He also assumed, this time incorrectly, that some profit was still to be had from these aliens, and so, swiftly and cunningly, he left the mob on Monck Street, set off through the alleys, and popped out at about the point that Horseferry winds around the mouth of Regency Street, head-on into the racing Newton who, canvas headgear and all, was outdistancing the crowd. Hornby was heard to shout, “Hey there,” or “You there,” or some such, before being bowled over, the ape snatching Hornby’s treasured box away as it swept past, thinking it, undoubtedly, the box that had been purloined in the alley.
Jack Owlesby, meanwhile, arrived at Lord Placer’s door and was admitted through the rear entrance by the butler, an affable sort who wandered off to drum up Miss Olivia at Jack’s insistence. Lord Placer, hearing from the butler that a boy stood in the hall with a box for Olivia, charged into Jack’s presence in a fit of determination. He’d played the fool for too long, or so he thought, and he intended to dig to the root of the business. He was well into the hall when he realized that he was dressed in his nightshirt and cap, a pointed cloth affair, and wore his pointy-toed silk house slippers which were, he knew, ridiculous. His rage overcame his propriety, and, of course, this was only an errand boy, not a friend from the club, so he burst along and jerked the box away from an amazed Jack Owlesby
“Here we have it!” he shouted, examining the thing.
“Yes, sir,” said Jack. “If you please, sir, this is meant for your daughter and was sent by Mr. Keeble.”
“Keeble has a hand in everything, it seems,” cried Lord Placer, still brandishing the box as if it were a great diamond in which he was searching for flaws. “What’s this bloody crank, boy? Some hideous apparatus, I’d warrant.”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” replied Jack diplomatically, hoping that Olivia would appear and smooth things out. He was sure that Lord Placer, who seemed more or less mad, would ruin the thing.
Casting caution to the winds, Lord Placer whirled away at the crank while peering into a funnel-like tube that protruded from the end. His teeth were set and he feared nothing, not even that this was, as he had been led to believe, one of the infernal machines rampant in the city. Amid puffings and whirrings and a tiny momentary tinkling sound, a jet of bright chlorophyll-green helium gas shot from the tube, covering Lord Placer’s face and hair with a fine, lime-colored mist.
A howl of outrage issued from Lord Placer’s mouth, now hanging open in disbelief. It was an uncanny howl, like that of moaning elf, for the gaseous mixture, for a reason known only to those who delve into the scientific mysteries, had a dismal effect on his vocal cords, an effect not unnoticed by Lord P., who thought himself poisoned and leapt toward the rear door. Winnifred, having heard an indecipherable shriek while lounging on the veranda, was met by Olivia, fresh from a stroll in the rose garden, and the two of them were astounded to see a capering figure of lunacy, eyes awhirl in a green face, come bellowing with an elvish voice into the yard, carrying a spouting device.
Winnifred’s worst fears had come to pass. Here was her husband, or so it seemed, gone amok and in a
Old Hornby had not been as fortunate as had Jack. His conviction that the box was extra-terrestrial was scoffed at by several pawnbrokers who, seeming vaguely interested in the prize, attempted to coerce Hornby to hand it over to them for inspection. Sly Hornby realized that these usurious merchants were in league to swindle him, and he grew ever more protective of the thing as he, too, worked his way south. His natural curiosity drew him toward a clamoring mob which pursued some unseen thing.
It seemed to Hornby as if he “sniffed aliens” in the air and, as far as it goes, he was correct. He also assumed, this time incorrectly, that some profit was still to be had from these aliens, and so, swiftly and cunningly, he left the mob on Monck Street, set off through the alleys, and popped out at about the point that Horseferry winds around the mouth of Regency Street, head-on into the racing Newton who, canvas headgear and all, was outdistancing the crowd. Hornby was heard to shout, “Hey there,” or “You there,” or some such, before being bowled over, the ape snatching Hornby’s treasured box away as it swept past, thinking it, undoubtedly, the box that had been purloined in the alley.
Jack Owlesby, meanwhile, arrived at Lord Placer’s door and was admitted through the rear entrance by the butler, an affable sort who wandered off to drum up Miss Olivia at Jack’s insistence. Lord Placer, hearing from the butler that a boy stood in the hall with a box for Olivia, charged into Jack’s presence in a fit of determination. He’d played the fool for too long, or so he thought, and he intended to dig to the root of the business. He was well into the hall when he realized that he was dressed in his nightshirt and cap, a pointed cloth affair, and wore his pointy-toed silk house slippers which were, he knew, ridiculous. His rage overcame his propriety, and, of course, this was only an errand boy, not a friend from the club, so he burst along and jerked the box away from an amazed Jack Owlesby
“Here we have it!” he shouted, examining the thing.
“Yes, sir,” said Jack. “If you please, sir, this is meant for your daughter and was sent by Mr. Keeble.”
“Keeble has a hand in everything, it seems,” cried Lord Placer, still brandishing the box as if it were a great diamond in which he was searching for flaws. “What’s this bloody crank, boy? Some hideous apparatus, I’d warrant.”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” replied Jack diplomatically, hoping that Olivia would appear and smooth things out. He was sure that Lord Placer, who seemed more or less mad, would ruin the thing.
Casting caution to the winds, Lord Placer whirled away at the crank while peering into a funnel-like tube that protruded from the end. His teeth were set and he feared nothing, not even that this was, as he had been led to believe, one of the infernal machines rampant in the city. Amid puffings and whirrings and a tiny momentary tinkling sound, a jet of bright chlorophyll-green helium gas shot from the tube, covering Lord Placer’s face and hair with a fine, lime-colored mist.
A howl of outrage issued from Lord Placer’s mouth, now hanging open in disbelief. It was an uncanny howl, like that of moaning elf, for the gaseous mixture, for a reason known only to those who delve into the scientific mysteries, had a dismal effect on his vocal cords, an effect not unnoticed by Lord P., who thought himself poisoned and leapt toward the rear door. Winnifred, having heard an indecipherable shriek while lounging on the veranda, was met by Olivia, fresh from a stroll in the rose garden, and the two of them were astounded to see a capering figure of lunacy, eyes awhirl in a green face, come bellowing with an elvish voice into the yard, carrying a spouting device.
Winnifred’s worst fears had come to pass. Here was her husband, or so it seemed, gone amok and in a
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