A crowded day, and no mistake, as full of individual acts as a bill at

a vaudeville, trained-animal act last. Was it possible that he had

gone fiddle hunting that morning, netting an Amati worth ten thousand

dollars? Hawksley--no, he couldn't blame Hawksley. Still, if this young

Humpty-Dumpty hadn't been pushed off his wall he, Cutty, would not now

be marooned upon this roof 'twixt the devil and the deep blue sea. To

remain here until sunrise would be impossible; to slide down the drain

was equally impossible--that is, if he ever wanted to see Boris Karlov

again. The way of the transgressor was hard.

He sat on his heels and let his gaze rove four-square, permitting no

object to escape. He saw a clothes pole leaning against the chimney.

Evidently the former tenants had hung up their laundry here. There was

no clothesline, however. Caught, jolly well, blooming well caught! If

ever this got abroad he would be laughed out of the game. He wasn't

going to put one over on Uncle Sam after all. There might be some kind

of a fire escape on the front of the house. No harm in taking a look; it

would serve to pass the time.

There was the usual frontal parapet about three feet in height. Upturned

in the shadow lay a gift from the gods-a battered kitchen chair,

probably used to reach the clothesline in the happy days when the word

"Bolshevism" was known to only a select few dark angels.

Cutty waved a hand cheerfully if vaguely toward his guiding star, picked

up the chair, commandeered the clothes pole, and silently manoeuvred to

the wall of the warehouse. Standing on the chair he placed the tip of

the pole against the top of the upper frame and pushed the frame halfway

up. He repeated this act upon the obdurate lower half. He heaved slowly

but with all his force. Glory be, the lower half went up far enough to

afford ingress! He would eat his breakfast in the apartment as usual.

To-morrow night he would establish his line of retreat by fetching a

light rope ladder. There was sweat at the roots of his hair, however,

when he finally gained the street. He was very tired. He observed

mournfully that the vigour which had always recharged itself, no

matter how recklessly he had drawn upon it, was beginning to protest.

Fifty-two.

Well, his troubles were over for the night. So he believed. Arriving

home, dirty and spent, he had to find Kitty asleep on the divan!




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